


The Undying

by ShadowThorne



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fantasy, Horror, M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThorne/pseuds/ShadowThorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago in a far off land, there lived a lonely king, a young prince, and a knight in shining armor. Ichigo was a good son and brother, and a promising heir to the throne, but he was naive like the well-meaning often are. And like all fairytales, darkness lurked in his shadow, older and more cunning than he could fathom, and it had its eyes set on a most handsome prize. GrimmIchi. Implied HichiIchi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Expect a second part! Hopefully you enjoy ^_^

  
  
The forest he dwelt most often in was said to be where he made his home. It curved around half the village, before giving way to roads and fields. An old forest, the trees were large and gnarled, the trunks twisted and the bark thick and rough. Thick leaves on skeletal branches created a dark and shadowy place even during the sunniest of days and a low hanging mist seemed to ever encompass the lower reaches and dips in the forest floor. During the nights, the fog would grow and spread. Tendrils of thick, hazy moisture would seep from the tree line, reach out toward the castle’s yards where the forest and the village melded, as if seeking to expand.  
  
Later, it would be said that the reaching fog had been an ill omen unheeded.  
  
This forest was forbidden at night. Haunted, they said, by the creature that lived within and the things he meddled with. During the day, however, it was safe enough, and since it bordered the castle grounds, it was nearly impossible to keep curious little boys from wandering into its edges.  
  
Despite how often his father and the maids warned against it, young Ichigo was always drawn to its mystery. They were content to let him explore the edge, so long as he remained within sight of the castle and was always back before night fell. But like all little boys, the prince had an explorative streak in him and rules were made to be broken.  
  
One day while he roamed between thick trunks and crunched over dead leaves, he managed to get himself turned around and lost his way. As day turned to evening, and evening began giving way to the night upon the horizon, he called out for his keepers, for his father and his mother -though she was sick with baby- but no one answered. He’d wandered too far from the edge and now he was swallowed within the forbidden forest’s darkness.  
  
A single light stood out in the dark, but it wasn’t a candle, nor a fire at all. Instead, it was a figure, pale-skinned and aglow under the moon’s feeble light and the last of the sun’s dying rays.  
  
“A-are you a ghost?” The little boy, yet to even see his first decade, looked up at a tall, slender man wrapped in black. Long, pale hair fell loose to frame narrow but not hawkish features. All white, the figure was colorless and erie.  
  
A small smile slanted bloodless lips, “No, child, I’m not ghost nor ghoul, nor even vampire.” The man said. His eyes were a sliver of gold against a lightless background, flashing and bright even in the darkened evening air. The boy before him looked skeptical, but awe shown in his young features. The man continued, “I’m but human, like you are.”  
  
Still, the boy looked skeptical, for he’d never seen a person look so strange before.  
  
The man merely chuckled a silvery, lilting sound that seemed to haunt the evening air. “What know ya of necromancers, Prince Ichigo?”  
  
Brown eyes widened, orange brows arching in surprise. “You know who I am!”   
  
Again, the man merely chuckled, “I do. I know a lot a things, prince, I am old like the forest. Older still. I was around before your father was king, before his father’s father was even born.” As he spoke, the man turned and resumed his easy, silent walk through the darkened forest that surrounded the castle grounds. Ichigo trailed at his heel like a well trained pet, ever looking up at him with curious wonder. “I have seen the rise of your kingdom, prince, and I will see its fall.”  
  
“You don’t look old…” Ichigo’s eyes narrowed slightly, and there was that skepticism again.  
  
A smart boy, the man took note of, but in this case, suspicious of all the wrong things. They continued on, through the thick, gnarled trees and Ichigo hardly seemed to even realize he walked at the man’s side, away from the castle and those that would protect him.  
  
“No, I do not.” The man agreed, that little slant to pale lips still present. “You didn’t answer my question, Ichigo, know ya what a necromancer is?”  
  
Young Ichigo nodded, but his brows knotted slightly in thought, “It’s… a necromancer is… like a priest, right? They talk to the dead.”  
  
The colorless man laughed an erie but not unpleasant sound. It wrapped around the trees like fog and tinkled in the air. “You are partially right, little prince.” He praised with a small, curt nod to the lad at his side. “A necromancer does indeed talk with the dead, but, I think, we are the opposite of a priest.”  
  
“The opposite?”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
A wave of curious excitement seemed to flow through the young prince, “What is the opposite of a priest?”  
  
“Well,” the man smiled almost patiently down at the boy, as all old beings do when faced with the wonder of youth they can hardly remember, “a priest lays the dead to rest, yes?”  
  
Ichigo nodded.  
  
“Then what is the opposite of resting, I wonder?”  
  
Ichigo thought for a moment, his hard-soled shoes crunching quietly through dried leaves and over small twigs. At his side, the necromancer made not a sound as he floated through the forest. “To be woken up?”  
  
The man nodded, “To be woken up.” He confirmed, “A necromancer is the opposite of a priest, in that we do not lay the dead ta rest, but rather raise them.”  
  
“And you’re a necromancer?” Ichigo asked in near awe, his eyes wide as he looked up at the colorless figure at his side. Even in the shadows of the canopy above, he looked like a ghost.  
  
“Indeed I am, a very powerful necromancer, Prince Ichigo.” The man glanced down at him, his golden eyes flashing in the dark. “I am now called Shirosaki the Undead, but once, long ago when I was young and first awakening my true power, I was known as a mender of broken, wounded spirits. A bridge between this world and the next. Many people did I help reach peace through waking the dead.”  
  
A wide and amazed smile split Ichigo’s young features. Likely he didn’t fully understand what was being told to him, young as he was, but it was magical and fascinating all the same, and he was intrigued. “You can help people talk to anyone?”  
  
“Almost anyone, yes.”  
  
‘What about… The old man that died in the gutter last night?” Ichigo asked.  
  
“Oh yes, someone so freshly lost is a simple task indeed.” The necromancer smiled, indulging the boy’s curiosity as they walked. “But why would you wish ta speak to a village drunkard?”  
  
Ichigo wrinkled his nose, “I wouldn’t.” Then he thought for a moment more, and, “What about animals?”  
  
“Even more simple,” The necromancer told him with a nod.  
  
“…my puppy died a few months ago,” Ichigo sounded surprisingly somber as he looked up at the man in his company. “could I talk to him?”  
  
“What a lonely thing it must be to be a prince.” The necromancer mused with a small, ironic shake of his head, “For you, Ichigo, I would bring the dog back to life so that you might play with it again.”  
  
“You can do that?!” The amazement in the boy’s voice was obvious.  
  
Not so far in the distance, a parting in the trees and dark leaves showed a dirt footpath. It twisted its way through a black iron gate that yawned in a buttressed wall of hewn stone. Beyond that, a mighty fortress of carved black brick stood; a castle to rival the king’s own. In parallel rows along the path that led to the entrance, twisted trees grew to just over the height of a man, their trunks thin but sturdy. The bark peeled and the leaves were near black, but waxy and shinning with life restored. In the vast yard, flowers grew in neat, cultured rows and patterns, their colors starkly brilliant compared to the dark contrast of the building and gate and even the trees. It was beautiful, but it was very strange indeed. Frighteningly raw and foreign.  
  
“I can do that, child.” Shirosaki inclined his head, smiled, and pushed the piked gate open with a gentle wave of his hand. Ichigo watched in awe as it floated noiselessly back and spread wide to allow him and his new friend entry, “But I need your help.”  
  
“Ok!” Ichigo followed through the gate and when a pale, long fingered hand was held out to him, he wrapped littler fingers around it.  
  
“Excellent,” The necromancer smiled, “stay close, yes? Wouldn’t want to get lost within the walls of my home.” His words were accompanied by a grave shake of his head, like monsters roamed the halls.  
  
Ichigo nodded his agreement and the two continued through the front entrance. They made their way up a winding staircase of cold stone, half melted candles leaving dried trails of colorless wax along the railing. The small flames flickered with hungry life, but all the candles were the exact same height and no new wax rolled down their sides. Up on the next floor, the necromancer carelessly beckoned with his free hand, in the direction off to their right, and took a turn toward the left. Ichigo jumped when a figure stepped from the shadows at their right and fell in line.  
  
Built exactly like the necromancer himself, this man was also tall and lean, his features sharp. His hair was a sandy blond, long and straight, and his eyes were a strange crimson. He said not a word as he followed, not even a whisper of greeting nor the inclination of a nod, and his attention never fell toward Ichigo. There was an unnerving calmness to him, a lifelessness that was yet restless as well.  
  
The necromancer smiled down at him, and didn’t relinquish his hold on the boy’s hand. “Fear not, little prince, he is merely a helper. A maid of sorts, you have those, yes?”  
  
Ichigo nodded numbly, and looked up at the newcomer, his orange brows arching in slow realization, “He looks just like you do…”  
  
Again, the necromancer smiled a small, almost charming expression and chuckled a silvery sound. “He does, doesn’t he?” But that was all he said on the matter as they followed a curving hall clear to the end, before entering through another door on the left.  
  
In this room, the air was cool but not dank. Row upon row of shelving lined the walls, like a library, but only one wall held books. The others were lined with jars and chests and containers of all shapes and sizes and colors. Some of the contents were dry, some wet. Some smelled spicy, like perfume, others fruity, still others like rot. In some of the jars, things moved and stared back at them.  
  
Ichigo edged closer to the necromancer’s side as he stared at all the strange and frightening things.  
  
Shirosaki led him to a large desk of blood red, polished wood. Upon its top, wax papers were laid out, a strange, arcane script in elegant handwriting marking the smooth parchment with dark ink. A heavy, iron chandelier with tall, white candles lit the room from above. More candles danced calmly upon the desk’s surface.  
  
Shirosaki sat Ichigo down at the high backed chair and began carefully rolling up his documents, tying them off with ribbons of various colors, and storing them out of the way. Next he turned towards a shelf on the far wall and Ichigo spun in his seat to watch as the colorless man smiled at him over his shoulder, and selected a jar from the shelf.  
  
“What’s that?” Ichigo asked as the jar was brought to the desk. Inside, a dry, yellowed powder filled nearly to the halfway mark. The jar itself was big enough around that Ichigo could just barely wrap his hands around it and have his fingers meet at its thinest part. He picked it up, careful of its weight, and turned it this way and that.  
  
The necromancer indulged him as he brought a silver tray to the desk next, the rim upturned just slightly to form a shallow bowl of sorts. “Bone.”  
  
Ichigo set the jar down, jerked his hands away, and stared.  
  
“Worry not,” Shirosaki chuckled, “it’s merely canine. -Yylfordt, the heart- This is what we’ll be using to bring back your dog’s body.” He explained as he twisted the top from the jar. Dipping a pale hand within, he pulled free a small handful of powder and held it in a cupped hand out to Ichigo for the boy to see. “Would you like to feel it? It wont harm anything to do so.”  
  
With wonder in his gaze and carefulness to his motions, the prince reached out and very gently trailed one fingertip through the off-white powder. It was cool and surprisingly soft to the touch, like finely ground grain for bread.  
  
“Seems a good substance for a dog, yes?” Shirosaki asked as he upturned his hand over the silver dish and let the powder filter through his fingers. Ichigo nodded and watched as the strange, silent servant brought forward another jar.  
  
This one was filled with a watery, muddy green liquid, a knot of muscle and shriveled meat floating within; a heart that had been wrung dry, preserved, and left to marinate. “This,” Shirosaki explained as he worked, his slim fingers deft in their motions, like it was a simple task that he completely regularly and had long since mastered, “will bring back its soul.”  
 “Father says animals don’t have souls…” Ichigo muttered, enraptured as the necromancer pulled forth a glass pipette of sorts, and drew greenish, sickly liquid into it.  
  
“Your father is a wise king, Ichigo, but he’s wrong in this.” Shirosaki said as he worked, adding several precise drops to the tray. They rolled down the small mound of powder, before the dried, crumbled bone drew it in like a thirsty creature. “All living things have a soul. Tis true, some are easier to find and see, while some are barely there at all, but still, a dog has a soul in the same way that you or your father does.”  
  
Ichigo drank in the information as he watched the necromancer put the lid back on the jar and handed it back to his silent servant. The man obediently placed it back in its spot on the shelf.  
  
Shirosaki brought one last ingredient over, pulled free from a iron-banded, wood chest, and dropped the small items onto the tray. They rattled against the fine silver, rolling until they drew up along the base of the small mound of yellow tinted bone powder. Teeth, Ichigo could see, big ones like the sharp canines of a wolf.  
  
“What are those for?” The necromancer had already told him what the bone was for, and the life blood.  
  
“Why, for bite, of course.” Shirosaki chuckled and almost fondly threaded his fingers through the prince’s soft, orange hair. “Now then, are you ready to see your puppy again, Ichigo?”  
  
Ichigo nodded, watching intently the pile of seemingly random and macabre items upon the silver dish. The necromancer’s small, steady smile widened to a grin, verging on wicked, as he pulled his hand from the prince’s head, and whispered what seemed like nonsense into his closed fist. The language was old, older than even the man preforming the ritual, and when he was done, on his last word, Shirosaki motioned toward the tray, as if flinging his chanted words into the pile.  
  
Almost right away, the bone powder began to bleed, thin, watery red trickling from the small mound. Soon, it found a steady rhythm.  
  
“…what’s it doing?” Ichigo asked in a whisper, his fingers clenched tightly on the edge of the desk. He watched intently as the whole tray filled with thin liquid, like watered down wine. Sitting in the center, the lump of saturated powder seemed to constrict, to writhe like it was trying to draw breath.  
  
Shirosaki grinned as he watched, “Listen, Ichigo.” He bid, resting his hand between the boy’s shoulder blades and nudging him closer, so that the young prince leaned further over the desk. He tilted his ear toward the tray and its contents, held up his hand like he was listening. “It’s beating, prince.”  
  
And sure enough, the steady rhythm took on a familiar pattern and a healthy thump-thump thump-thump.  
  
“Like a heart.” Ichigo breathed, watching as the soaked mound of powder began smoothing out and taking shape.  
  
“Indeed, child, we’ve made your dog a heart.”  
  
Not more than an hour later, the necromancer led Prince Ichigo by the hand through the night darkened forest and back toward the castle. At the boy’s side, a medium sized dog trotted happily, its tongue lolling from its mouth and its ears relaxed. It’s thick, shaggy coat was glossy and shimmering and a long tail wagged out behind it. A wide, overjoyed smile spread across young Ichigo’s face as he tangled the fingers of his other hand in his freshly raised dog’s fur.  
  
The walk back to the castle was a longer one than the walk out to Shirosaki’s home. The dark hid many dangers on this side of the forest. Very few, if any at all, could pose threat to the powerful necromancer and the dark magic he commanded. Even fewer would have dared try, but little Ichigo was still vulnerable and the necromancer had plans for the boy, plans that would be ruined should he be killed. Death was the pale man’s business, but for this ritual, he needed life.  
  
Before they made it through the parted trees, Shirosaki smirked to himself and listened to the frantic calls of men and women searching the grounds ahead. They dared not enter the forest, not after dusk. When they pulled free of the forest’s boundaries, the necromancer released the prince’s hand, and Ichigo shouted a happy call to his father the king as he raced across the vast yard.  
  
As Ichigo rushed to his side, the king knelt to grab his only son by the shoulders and look him over, fearful he had been harmed. He’d yet to see the feared necromancer slowly, confidently floating his way. His steps made not a sound as his black, flowing robes trailed like smoke behind him, his fluid stride like an erie fog.  
  
Upon seeing his heir was unharmed, the king leveled a stern look at his child, “Ichigo, where have you been? We were worried. I was just about to send men into the forest to look for you…”  
  
“Sorry father…” Sheepishly, Ichigo ducked his head a bit, but turned to find his new friend.  
  
Shirosaki halted his easy pace just outside of arm’s reach of the crouching king, and gave a curt nod in greeting when the elder Kurosaki straightened to give him a hard stare. There was an accusation in his eyes, a demand for answers.  
  
The necromancer tilted his head just slightly, his odd eyes panning over the king, the people around them, and back again. Despite that nearly everyone gathering around them was armed, veterans of the royal guard one and all, there was not a trace of unease to be found in the pale man. “I assure you, good king, I was merely helpin’ the little prince find his way.”  
  
Isshin was quiet for a long moment, then, “…you have my thanks. Now leave.”  
  
There was a darkness to the slant of pale lips.  
  
At the king’s side, Ichigo looked up at his father and proclaimed happily, “Look father! He’s brought back my puppy!”  
  
As he did so, the dog trotted from behind the necromancer to sit at Ichigo’s feet. It looked up at him with all the excitement and happiness of a dog in love with its owner, tail waggling and all.  
  
Appalled and shocked, Isshin pulled his boy away from the animal, “That cannot be your dog Ichigo, your dog died.”  
  
“No, Shiro brought him back for me.” Ichigo explained, reaching out to run his hands over the dog’s head and down its neck. The tail wagged all the harder for the attention.  
  
Isshin looked up sharply, his dark eyes wide and a mix of fear and anger on his features, “Leave. Now.” He commanded of the necromancer, “You only walk free of royal grounds because you have brought my boy back safely. You are not welcome back.”  
  
The pale creator smirked a dark and foreboding expression, his head tilting to the side as his strange eyes coasted over Isshin, then strayed toward the castle. “I can bring her back.” He all but whispered and there was darkness in his quiet, lilting voice, spoken as if he hadn’t heard the king’s demand.   
  
Isshin recoiled as if physically struck, his dark eyes widening. “…no. Lea-“  
  
“She’s still nearby. The price to pay would be small for one such as you.” Shirosaki continued, his unnerving gaze hard and gleaming where it held the king’s eyes. He did not speak what that price would be, though. “Surely worth it to see your beloved wife once more. To live with her, love her. I could give the prince his mother back, the kingdom their queen. Perhaps she could bring you more children, another heir.”  
  
“M-my wife is…” Isshin insisted, the line of his jaw clenched hard. His fingers tightened around his son’s shoulders, keeping the boy tugged close and away from the powerful man standing before them.  
  
“Yes. During childbirth just the night before last.” The necromancer nodded slightly, his gaze again cast toward the castle looming behind them, not so far away. It was as though those otherworldly eyes could see beyond what mortal vision could detect, like he saw this world and the next. “And your infant daughters lay sick and fevered without her. The midwife and priests are not enough, if I can already find them among-” He paused abruptly, expression shifting just slightly, and eyes falling toward Ichigo again.  
  
Standing with his father, Ichigo looked up at the king with wide eyes, not really understanding fully what was transpiring. Isshin looked truly horrified.  
  
“Oh.” The necromancer breathed, a bit of a chuckle in his voice, “He knows not.” Strange, inverted eyes looked almost remorseful as they studied young Ichigo’s features. Almost. There was also amusement there. The man shook his head in a mocking parody of tragedy, “When will you tell him his mother has di-”  
  
“Enough!” Isshin’s fury rang through the yards, making everyone flinch, but not the necromancer. The necromancer merely smiled. “Leave.” The king demanded in a rough, thick voice, “Remove yourself from my company before I change my mind, creature, and do not return.”  
  
The necromancer gave the slightest of bows and again everyone flinched, “As you wish, m’ king.” But the polite words held a wicked snarl and the smile that parted pale lips bared teeth.  
  
“But, father-“  
  
“No, son.” Isshin snagged hold of the heir to the throne and began pulling him back toward the castle, leaving the necromancer and the abomination of his son’s dog behind. “He is not a good man. He is not a man at all.” He cautioned, his voice a low and unhappy rasp. “And that is not your dog, it is a construct, a monster.”  
  
As he watched the retreating forms of the king and prince, Shirosaki smirked, “I believe the term ya seek is ghoul, King Isshin.” He informed. Then his eyes flickered to Ichigo and his smile turned almost gentle, reassuring, “Fear not, little prince, we will meet again. And remember what I told you.”  
  
Ichigo nodded, before he was dragged from the castle gardens and locked away inside. As Shirosaki left, guards parted around him. The forest seemed to welcome him back and its shadows swallowed him up like he was but a ghost.  
  
The very next day, his dog at his heel, Ichigo raced from the castle grounds and down through the streets of the village. He was warned by his father’s advisors against ever entering the forest again. By the time he made it to the butcher, the young prince was panting for breath, but a pleased smile rode his boyish features. The dog seemed equally as happy. With a few coins, he purchased a fresh, still bloody sheep’s heart and had it wrapped up. He took the fresh meat home. At his side, the dog licked its lips and whined a hungry sound.  
  
He snuck his way into the kitchen once back at home, and used a knife to cut the heart into smaller pieces. The woman working there gasped an appalled sound and quickly hurried over to take the large knife from him, “Careful!” She scolded, “What are you doing here, prince? Tis my duty, not yours, to be in the kitchen.”  
  
“I was feeding my dog…” Ichigo explained, handing over a bloodied strip of fresh heart. The animal snapped his jaws around it so quickly the sound of teeth echoed in the room. Ichigo picked up the next piece.  
  
The woman watched in near horror, but the animal’s vicious teeth never found Ichigo’s skin, only raw, bloody meat.  
  
That night, Isshin confessed to his son what the necromancer had spoke of. Distraught and horrified over the unexpected loss of his mother, the young child retreated within himself. His grief was obvious, and only his dog seemed capable of bringing a ghosting of a smile to his features.  
  
The dog was present during the funeral services, and from then on, couldn’t be separated from Ichigo, ever at the boy’s side.  
  
Later that week, Isshin found his son out in the yard, throwing a stick for the dog to chase after. The child of a man that worked in the castle was present. The boy was only a few years older than the prince, and often enough kept the young prince company when Ichigo’s father was busy. But this day, the peasant boy seemed distrusting of the dog, and so merely stood at Ichigo’s side and watched, rather than joined in on the play.   
  
The animal certainly did look just like Ichigo’s dead dog. It even had the same demeanor and followed at the prince’s heel like it always had. But the dead do not rise again, not truly, and not without a price. While he watched the monstrosity, he spoke to his boy. “Do not feed it, Ichigo, that is not your dog.”  
  
“I have to feed it, father.” Ichigo looked up with wide eyes at his father, “Shirosaki said that it must eat a fresh heart everyday, or it will die again. It already died once, how can I let it die again?”  
  
Isshin realized then that his son knew much too intimately death at such a tender young age. He feared what such a close relationship with so dark a thing would do to his boy.  
  
The next day, Isshin consulted a priest. “Destroy it.” The old man whispered as he watched the dog play with the young prince. It was gentle with the boy, and ever loyal like a dog should be, but it was unnatural. Not right. “Burn it and scatter the ashes far away. It is a monster in dog’s fur, a demon like the Undead himself.”  
  
That evening Isshin attempted to do just that. Catching on to his father’s plans to have his dog killed, Ichigo ran out into the yards to save his beloved pet. With the prince in the way and stubbornly unmoving, the animal couldn’t be shot and killed. When Isshin tried to physically pull the boy away and Ichigo protested, struggling against his father, the dog turned on Isshin with a menacing growl and raised hackles, prepared to defend its owner.  
  
The king’s next goal became starving the creature. The kitchen maid had expressed her concerns about Ichigo’s pet’s eating habits and, not knowing better, the young prince himself had expressed as much on several occasions. The dog ate fresh hearts that Ichigo himself picked up from the butcher each morning. While impressed that his son was taking on the responsibility each and every day, Isshin was as leery and fearful of the dog’s nature as everyone else, and he knew nothing good could come out of the necromancer’s gift to his son, the heir to the throne. Should the Undead be attempting to make another power play, an impressionable young boy so close to the throne was a good place to start. And Isshin knew, Shirosaki had all the time in the world at his disposal. A few years for Ichigo to mature, to grow into his role, would be as nothing to the necromancer.  
  
The king locked his only son away, and forbid him from leaving the castle that next morning.  
  
With a nanny posted to keep an eye on him, Ichigo fought back tears of worry and anger as he watched his dog whine that morning. The animal paced by his closed bedroom door, located on the second floor of the castle. It hung its head and pawed at the door, before returning to Ichigo and nosing at the prince’s hand as if asking to be fed. The only thing it ate all day long was a single, fresh heart each morning. Even the few times Ichigo had tried to sneak it table scraps as it laid at his feet in the dinning hall, it had merely sniffed and turned its head.  
  
Ichigo couldn’t imagine how hungry the poor thing must have been by morning, and then to be refused its only meal? He threw his arms around his beloved pet’s neck and whispered apologies until the dog quit whining for food. After a few hours, the animal seemed to give up, or maybe even forget that it was supposed to eat, and when Ichigo was allowed from his room, it trotted at his heel like always and the two went about their day.  
  
The next morning, Isshin again locked his son and the dog away. Again, it whined and scratched at the door for hours, before seemingly forgetting about its hunger. By the third day, it no longer trailed behind Ichigo quite so happily, but rather with its head down, shoulders hunched, and a still tail. By the fourth day, it began flashing teeth at anyone that dared come near it that wasn’t Ichigo.  
  
Knowing the dog was acting strangely, the prince begged his father to let him return to the butcher with the coming of dawn. It did him little good. Isshin knew he was hurting his only son with this, and he truly felt horrible for what he was doing, both to Ichigo and to the dog, but he also knew that this was likely his only way of destroying the monster Shirosaki had planted in his home.  
  
Little did he know that the revived dog was not the danger Shirosaki had corrupted the sanctity of the castle with. No, the necromancer’s influence was far more subtle than that. All he needed to give Ichigo was ideas, thoughts. A nudge in the direction he sought. The dog was just a dog.  
  
At the week’s end, the animal snapped and snarled and barked at anyone that came within sight. It’s once large, soft eyes grew cloudy and cold and clear mucus dripped from its nose like it was sick. Another day of its starvation and the dog was chasing servants and guards from its sight, frothy, red flecked foam dripping from its jaws. Still, it was gentle with Ichigo. As Ichigo mourned the animal’s fate, it laid at his side as he sat on his bed or in the grass outside and breathed in a labored wheeze, and wagged its tail with each and every stroke of the prince’s hand against its course, dry fur.  
  
A few more days and the dog’s fur began shedding in clumps under Ichigo’s hands. It foamed at the mouth and trembled in jerky, uncontrolled movements. Ichigo and the dog stayed mostly upstairs where his bedroom was located, so that the sickly animal didn’t have to struggle up and down the stairs.  
  
Having kept an eye on the beast and his son, Isshin began fearing for the boy’s safety, despite that the dog still tried to waggle its tail whenever Ichigo was near. It snapped and snarled at everyone else. It even bit one of Ichigo’s handmaids. The woman nearly lost her hand and would likely not be returning to her duties.  
  
A group of guards were rounded up. Under strict instructions to capture and kill the dog, and keep Ichigo safe through the entire process, they set out upstairs to find the monstrosity. By then, the undead dog had been driven mad. When the guards set foot on the second floor landing, it charged from Ichigo’s room, barking and growling and snarling in misguided over protectiveness. It bared half rotted teeth, its gums raw and bleeding, and attacked. There was no fear in its movements, no hesitation to attack a large group of men, only mindless aggression.  
  
Isshin rushed around the guards while the animal was busy, and hurried to find his boy, terrified of what the mad creature may have done to his son. He found Ichigo frightened but unharmed, huddled in a corner of his room. Wet clumps of fur decorated the floor nearby, blood flecked drool in puddles. The room was a mess. The floor showed where the creature’s claws had worn trails against the wood. The door was nearly ruined from the animal scratching and chewing at it each morning.  
  
In the end, the guards didn’t capture the risen dog, nor did they kill it. It killed itself. After chasing them, after attacking and biting mindlessly, the animal had begun to run circles, its movements aimless. It was as though it had simply lost its mind and gone mad. It jumped and jerked and its limbs shook and trembled. Muscle twitched unhealthily under its dry, patchy hide. Eventually, whether by accident or on purpose, it threw itself through the railing that kept people from falling over the edge of the high staircase, and plunged to the first floor. Neck snapped, the dog whined a long, shrill sound, its back half twitching, legs scrabbling as its broken jaw fell open and foam coated its neck and chest.  
  
When it fell still, Isshin hoisted his son, nearly too big to carry anymore, and made sure his face was hidden before rushing the boy from the castle so that the dead creature and the evidence of its decent into madness could be cleaned up.  
  
A deep pit was dug off castle grounds, the location never told to the young prince. The dog’s body was lowered into it, before dry straw was dropped to cover it. It was set on fire and left burning until nothing but ashes remained, then the pit was filled in and the incident became nothing more than a tale, whispered about at night.  
  
The handmaid the dog had bitten died of infection the next day. Her body was burned and buried as well.  
  
“This was not your fault, Ichigo, my son.” Isshin told the young, upset prince one night as he tucked the boy in for bed. Ichigo had been distraught over the second death of his beloved pet. “This was the necromancer’s fault. His black magic is a horrid, cursed thing, Ichigo.”  
  
“No father.” Ichigo muttered sullenly, “Shiro did exactly as he said he’d do. He gave me my dog back so that we might play again. You killed it a second time.”  
  
It would be years before Ichigo would see the necromancer again. In that time, the prince grew and matured into a handsome and wise young man. He was slowly being groomed for the role of King and his father was proud of the ruler he would surely be. The incident with the dog was never forgotten, but as he grew older, Ichigo came to realize why his father had done what he had. He wasn’t pleased with what his elder had done, and he would never be, but he understood the paranoia and fear that ran deep in virtually all the kingdom. Magic was something strange and powerful. Dark magic was frightening and taboo, unknown. His father was as much subject to that fear as anyone else.  
  
There was a reason the necromancer lived all alone in his dark forest, Ichigo suspected, but he thought it a different reason than what others thought.   
  
There were rumors aplenty about the mysterious, ageless man. Like a legend or a myth, he was said to have come from nowhere, but he’d been around forever. For as long as anyone could remember and longer. Long enough that his name, once popular and well known, had disappeared from the books and was now only whispered in dark corners. Like a specter in both appearance and manner, he drifted through the forest that surrounded the village or through the cobbled streets near the castle. He was ever present, a pale shadow, but he was taboo and powerful, the way myths often are. It was said that to deal with the creature was to invite madness and eventually a fate worse than death. He was a cunning man. As smart as he was powerful, and when he set his sights on something, he let nothing stand in his way.   
  
Or so the stories said.  
  
Fear often followed in the shadows of such driven, strong-minded people. No, Ichigo began to suspect the necromancer was not as horrid as everyone thought. He merely avoided those that feared and loathed him. He spent all his time alone because, even when he ventured into the village among the other citizens, he was left an outcast, a monster.  
  
In the prince’s experience, Shirosaki was fascinating and strange, but honest and reliable even. He’d been nothing but kind and helpful to Ichigo when he was but a boy all those years ago. There was scarcely a day Ichigo hadn’t thought of the pale man and the promise to meet again. It hadn’t seemed an ill boding prediction, but rather a friendly one. He was certain his father would have disagreed, but after a couple years of the promise going unfulfilled, Isshin had eventually let his guard lower.  
  
One day, on the prince’s sixteenth birthday, just before he became a man, the necromancer returned. Ichigo, in the fine clothing of a prince and with an escort in the form of two royal guards trailing him, wandered about the village, mostly in boredom. He perused a few random roadside stalls, smiling cordially when he was greeted or acknowledged by his proper title. He wasn’t given many days off, where he was free from tutors and advisors that coached him in how to be a fine monarch. So when he did find himself with some free time on his hands, he chose to escape the castle walls while he had the chance.  
  
However, as he walked and entertained the citizens that recognized him with his friendly smiles and a few words, a figure that he’d initially overlooked spoke from nearby, and called him by something he’d not been referred to ever but once and only when he’d been a child. The strangeness of it caught his attention and made orange brows arch as the future king turned to find the source of the voice.  
  
“My my… haven’t ya grown, little prince.” The voice was unmistakable, even after nearly 9 years. Dressed almost the exact same as what Ichigo remembered, the figure was cloaked in all black, richly decorated robes. The hem nearly brushed the dirty cobbles, hiding all but the toes and soles of dark leather boots. The sleeves were long and fluttery, wider than need be in a showy way. Clasped snuggly around the necromancer’s lean torso, the abdomen of the dark robe was in an almost corset fashion, with silver fixtures and hooks to keep it wound tightly about him. Unlike the fashionable articles worn by women, the ribs of the corset structure were obvious and prominent. Sharp, even. The one that followed the necromancer’s spine was even barbed, as if to ward off attack or some other nonsense. Along the front, sparkling gems of blood red and deep purple decorated it. A cowl was pulled over the man’s stark hair, hiding equally pale features in deep shadows. From within, the glint of golden eyes was just barely visible, catching the light of the sun like a cat’s.  
  
Ichigo turned to the man with a genuine, if not a bit surprised, smile. “Good ne- …priest! It’s been a long time.”  
  
Pale fingers emerged from the concealing sleeves as the man reached up and drew back his hood. Long hair fell free to hang around his shoulders and cascade down his back, a stunning contrast to the darkness of his clothing. The smirk that played at colorless lips was amused. “Now, child, we’ve had this discussion. Or have ya forgotten that opposites are a priest and a necro-“  
  
“No no.” Ichigo interrupted, waving a single hand a bit in a staying motion. He turned to continue down the street, motioning for the man at his side to follow. “I remember well our short time together, but now I understand the negativity that so many affix to your true title. Priest is much more widely accepted, yes?”  
  
“Indeed.” The necromancer inclined his head in a slight nod, and easily fell in line at the prince’s side. “How fairs your pup?”  
  
Ichigo frowned a bit and glanced over at the man, the oddest feeling that he was letting the man down creeping up in his gut. “…my father would have none of it.” He said quietly, “The dog was killed long ago.”  
  
“Ah.” Shirosaki nodded a small motion, and didn’t seem put off. His hands eased to his sides, the long sleeves again hiding all traces of pale skin. There was an effortlessness to his motions, as there had been years ago.  
  
“You’re not surprised.” Ichigo stated more than asked. “You suspected he’d kill it?”  
  
“I had my suspicions, yes.” The necromancer admitted, “Not many would so willin’ly accept a ghoul inta their homes. Fearful, ya see, of what they don’t understand.”  
  
It was Ichigo’s turn to nod. They were quiet as they walked, the prince lost in thought. Then Ichigo shook his head a bit and looked back to the man in his company. He didn’t miss the way the citizens around them gave the necromancer a wide birth and plenty of less than kind attention. “You haven’t aged a day. Nine years, and you look exactly the same.” There was a smile to his voice, “Are you truly undead? Do you feed on hearts like your ghouls?”  
  
An erie laugh floated through the air around them as a wide grin split pale features. There was madness in the over-wide expression, should one take the time to look closely enough. “Oh no, dear prince, as I told ya, I am but a man. Your father the king, and most everyone else,” A single pale hand appeared from the cuff of one sleeve and waved a vague, dismissing motion, “calls me Undead out of ignorance but I’m not Undead, I am undying, and they don’t understand that distinction. Undead implies that I have died and risen again, and I have never experienced death, I can assure ya.”  
  
Fascinated, though less obviously so than when he’d been just a child, Ichigo shook his head, a bit of a smile playing on his handsome features. He turned their trek down a different path of the village, headed toward the edge of town where the streets would be less crowded and where their walk would be quieter. The two guards appointed to the prince’s escort trailed behind them, quiet and unobtrusive, but watchful and maybe just a bit nervous now. The king would not be pleased with this meeting.  
  
“It must be an amazing thing, to transcend death.” Ichigo mused. He was young still, not even an adult yet, but he was privileged and so, because of his wealth and his status, educated. In the castle, his room was filled with books and writings. Tutors visited almost daily, instructing him and his sisters in new lessons and subjects. “Is it not what all scholars inadvertently seek? So that they may further their learning, and indeed some insist that the pursuit of their knowledge will live on even after them, so claim that they have found the means to continue living through their work. Alchemists and priests, too, though they seek it more literally, I suppose.”  
  
Shirosaki smirked and seemed content to let the prince ramble. Young and naive as the boy may have been, he was indeed better company than the necromancer’s usual audience.  
  
“Yet you seem to have accomplished what they’ve failed in, and they cast you out for your success.” A disgruntled frown settled on Ichigo’s handsome features.  
  
At his side, the necromancer lilted a soft but amused laugh, unperturbed, for it was no news to him. Long long ago perhaps he’d wished for unity, for a place to fit amongst his fellow citizens. If that time existed, it no longer carried any weight in Shirosaki’s mind. He was not so frail as that. All the few things he’d told to the young prince had been truth, but his truths were warped, twisted and not entirely whole, but rather only segments and vague. There were reasons for that; Shirosaki was every bit the monster people whispered of. “Worry not, young prince,-”  
  
But as the necromancer began, his intent to ease the young lad’s mind for a while longer, Ichigo continued. His words silenced Shirosaki in a way no one yet had been capable of.  
  
“When I become king, I will welcome you back.” Ichigo proclaimed, his youth showing through. “And, I think, in time, so will the others.”  
  
“It is a pretty thought.” The necromancer mused after a few moments. The prince’s footsteps echoed softly off the cobbled street they walked upon. Shirosaki’s made not a sound, his robes trailing out behind him like black smoke from a burning building. “I truly value our few conversations, Prince, I would welcome more.”  
  
Taking the man’s words at face value, Ichigo smiled. “Than it’s settled.” He all but proclaimed, “In the coming years, ready yourself to leave the damp old fortress. I will find for you a proper home upon the street nearest the castle.”  
  
Shirosaki chuckled an erie sound. “I hope it will be a large one. I have many things that pertain ta my line of work in that damp old fortress.”  
  
A slight reddening rose in Ichigo’s features as he smiled a sheepish expression, only now realizing he’d unintentionally insulted another man’s home. “Forgive me, I hadn’t meant-“  
  
The necromancer grinned and waved it off, a careless motion of his hand.  
  
A curious frown tugged at Ichigo’s smile, as he gave long, slim fingers a subtle once over. The motion, one that he’d seen the necromancer go through a couple times so far this day, was nearly the same as he’d done years ago, on the evening the two had first met. Before, the simple, gentle motion had opened a gate. There had seemed so much power in the man’s every move. Yet now, it affected nothing.  
  
Not much escaped his attention, and the necromancer bemusedly brought both hands up, and splayed his fingers out in front of himself. Nails as black as his clothing glinted in the sunlight of a fair weathered day. Gems of red and purple and black set into silver bands decorated his hands and wrists, sparkling richly but strangely, as if drawing in the light rather than reflecting it.  
  
Realizing he’d been caught, Ichigo hastened to explain, dragging a hand through his hair to keep himself busy. “Uhh…I was only curious…” There was the unsureness of youth in his voice, and the necromancer hummed a sound to tell him he could ask as he pleased. So Ichigo continued, “The night you brought my dog back, you, um… Well, I remember there seemed so much power in your hands alone. But just now…” He waved his hand out, in a much less graceful parody of the necromancer’s motions.  
  
“Ah, I see.” Shirosaki grinned, bringing one hand up to motion with a single finger toward his head, “The power is here, my hands, and indeed anythin’ else I should choose, whether a part of my person or not, are merely conduits. A way to give better direction to my magic.”  
  
Fascinated, Ichigo drank in what he was being told. He knew next to nothing about magic and how it worked. Knowledge of its existence was slowly disappearing, as the church began weeding out practitioners and banishing them and their craft as taboo and work of the devil. All he knew about it was that there were supposedly different types, different channels and levels, and that they were all off limits to goodly people. “How does one go about learning magic? Is it even something that you can learn?”  
  
The necromancer graced the prince with an almost charming, sly little smile. “Generally, one doesn’t go about learning magic, since the church has declared it evil. But long ago, when it was still a reputable art, a person wishin’ ta learn about it would find a tutor, just as they would for any subject. And yes, young prince, most anyone can be taught the basics, though only the truly gifted get very far.”  
  
“I suspect you’re one of the gifted few, then?” Ichigo smirked as he asked it, really just making conversation.  
  
It was beyond obvious to Shirosaki that the prince was becoming infatuated with him, though, and it brought a dark sort of glee to him. The seed he’d planted all those years ago was paying off, and in only a few more years, the young man would reach maturity. And so would his plans, already set into motion.  
  
“Indeed.” The older man confirmed, nodding. “I was considered quite talented in my time.” He eyed the prince speculatively and did nothing to hide it. Everything he did was for show, after all, meant to be seen and noted. If he wished his comings and goings to be in secret, they would be. Then he smirked and faced forward again, keeping his pace leisurely and confident at the future king’s side. “Before ya ask, only the very, truly stubborn and dedicated get anywhere at all without a tutor, and while I am not the best for schooling, I would consider it.”  
  
Ichigo arched orange brows and stared at the necromancer like his mind had been read. Before he could say anything, however, Shirosaki held up a single finger in a motion to tell him to pause.  
  
“You are not yet of age, prince.” The powerful necromancer bluntly halted Ichigo’s tumult of no doubt wild fancies. “There’re two windows of opportunity in which to begin learning the arts. The first is when one is very young, a babe still. The other is with the out growing of adolescence. You’ve a couple a years before I could begin teachin’ ya.”  
  
Ichigo did well at hiding the slight look of disappointment that wanted to settle on his handsome features, but it was there all the same and the necromancer didn’t miss it. He said nothing, however, turned forward to appear as if he weren’t paying as much attention as he actually was.  
  
“Could you…” Ichigo hesitated, thoughtful, “Perhaps, would it be possible to point me in a direction? So that I might begin gaining a basic understanding, books, or something maybe?”  
  
Shirosaki tipped his chin up a bit, still walking in that easy, effortless way of his. His hands slid behind his back and clasped casually as he hummed a thoughtful sound. Then he turned a speculative eye on his young companion and one corner of his pale lips quirked at the hint of eager excitement and pleading Ichigo couldn’t quite hide. “Sadly, I cannot give ya the name of any books nor scrolls that would help ya… Most have been lost or destroyed.” He paused, watching a crestfallen look crease boyish features for a moment. “But…” And he tilted his head a bit, like he was putting serious thought into his words, “I suppose that should ya still be interested in learnin’ the arts in one year’s time, I shall have been able ta collect what ya’d need ta find an understanding of the basics.”  
  
“A year…?” Ichigo asked, a bit dismayed perhaps.  
  
The necromancer chuckled and nodded, “A year seems so long when you’re young,” He said as if reminiscing. “A year,” He confirmed, “In one year, if you’re still interested, come ta my home -ya remember where it is? - and I will have ready what you’ll need ta get started.”  
  
“But you wont teach me then?” Ichigo asked, still walking at a leisurely pace with the necromancer.  
  
“No, ya still wont be quite of age, but you’ll be old enough to start learnin’ the basics on your own.” The man was quiet for a few strides, before he turned a serious look on the young prince. “When ya come, bring no one with ya.” His strange eyes cornered, to look back behind them at the two guards shadowing the prince. “No one.” He repeated when Ichigo frowned a bit. “Ta bring an escort along would be ta invite tragedy upon them, and danger upon me. When ya cross inta the forest, it wont be safe for them and should they lose their lives, I would surely be held accountable.”  
  
Brown eyes widened a bit. Ichigo understood the logic and truth in the necromancer’s words. He knew the man was feared and loathed, and most thought that he controlled the forest and the darkness it held. But still, even though Shirosaki wasn’t the danger that lurked the misty woods, there was still something within… “But the forest…” Trailing off, he shook his head a bit.  
  
“Worry not.” The necromancer let a slight smile interrupt his stern expression and turned forward again, “I would not have you wander the forest alone. Come by dark and I will have an escort awaiting you at the tree line. Somethin’ that knows well the forest and the dangers within.”  
  
Ichigo quirked a brow, something like unsureness settling in the tightness to his jaw. “But my escort isn’t to be you?”  
  
“No.” Gold eyes edged away from the prince, almost as if he was embarrassed and hesitant to admit it. The necromancer pushed the expression away quickly, but he watched as the young prince’s expression changed, telling him the lad had caught it, as he was meant to. “I will be…” A pale hand appeared, waved a careless motion, “unavailable for such crusades at the time.”  
  
Ichigo frowned a bit, and looked as if he would ask, but Shirosaki merely turned a surprisingly charming smile on him and pulled to a stop. The prince halted as well, standing to face the necromancer in the middle of a mostly deserted section of road. Behind them a few paces, the prince’s guards watched but remained unobtrusive, there to keep the prince safe should something unexpected occur.  
  
“I must take my leave now, young prince.” Shirosaki announced with a slight bow, as a lower standing citizen should have normally admonished on royalty. The polite gesture seemed almost mocking though, strange like it wasn’t something one such as the necromancer would normally have done. Ichigo didn’t say anything about it, and the powerful elder straightened and turned away to take his leave.  
  
The prince watched the man’s sharp features shift, watched bloodless lips move as Shirosaki walked off, as if speaking to himself. Ichigo shook his head a bit, and turned to return to the festivities of the main road, his guards following behind him. One cast a glance over his armored shoulder toward the wicked necromancer, and only then did Ichigo hear the whispered words the man had spoken in parting.  
  
“One year’s time, dear prince, alone or my escort will not bring you to me.”  
  
Ichigo smiled, and hid his chuckle as the guard on his right moved up to his side. There was a happy spring to the prince’s step as he walked between carts and the bustle of the city seemed to filter back into existence.  
  
“Sire.” The guard’s voice was a deep sound, his un-visored features pulled into hard, disapproving lines. Fierce, blue eyes turned upon Ichigo.  
  
“You don’t have to call me that, Grimmjow.” Ichigo smiled at the guard.  
  
Only a handful of years older than the prince, the prince’s favored and most trusted guard was but a young man as well, fresh into adulthood. He’d been the son of a lowly man that had worked manual labor around the castle grounds and, determined to be better than his father, Grimmjow had worked his way through the ranks until he found himself in the heir’s personal guard at just twenty years of age. Though they were never exactly good friends, he had known the prince nearly all his life and sometimes it seemed Grimmjow knew more about Ichigo than those that were closer to equals with the future king.  
  
“Ichigo, then,” The guard corrected. The light armor he wore did little to hinder his movements. The weight was a familiar one by now. At his side, the decorated hilt of a sword shone in the morning light. “Don’t go with him. In a year, lock yourself within the castle, don’t go near the forest. Stay far away from that creature.”  
  
The heir to the throne looked almost disappointed and shook his head, “So you’re as paranoid as everyone else, are you? I would have expected differently from someone so hot headed.”  
  
Something of a sneer flashed over the guard’s features, but he didn’t fall back with his fellow guardsman and stubbornly hung at the prince’s side. “There is a reason he’s avoided and feared, Ichigo, you’ve heard the stories.”  
  
“Yes, I have.” Ichigo nodded, “But I’ve seen no evidence of them being true. For as long as I can remember, his ill deeds have only been in spoken rumor of long ago times. Tell me, Grimmjow, can you ever remember hearing of him doing something untold in your actual lifetime?”  
  
The guard frowned and had it been directed at anyone else, it truly would have seemed a frightening expression. “No, but the stories-”  
  
Ichigo raised a hand and silenced the young man. “Are just stories, as far as I’m concerned.” He turned what he hoped was a reassuring expression on his worried guard. The man was only doing what he was sworn to, after all. “The church needs an example to convince the people that magic is evil. Who better to use than an already outcasted man? And even if the stories have root in truth, that was so long ago. Another life time. Who’s to say that he couldn’t change if only given the chance? He doesn’t seem like such a bad man.”  
  
Severe, blue brows furrowed further. Grimmjow shook his head, “Don’t go with him, Ichigo.” He said again, but the matter was already closed, and he fell back in line with the prince’s other guard. Their day continued as if nothing had happened and nothing had changed. The people of the town were happy to see their future king among them.  
  
Trailing through his shadowy forest, Shirosaki smiled to himself and in the dark, his grin flashed white teeth. The low lying fog crept from his path, slinking away like a frightened creature as the darkness of his robes seemed to bleed into it. A horrid creature of white bone and dead, corse hair wandered up to his side like a well trained pet. The sharp ridges of its fleshless ribs and spine glistened with the moisture from the mist around them. It’s stringy, pale mane cascaded around it’s shoulders in a mocking parody of a person’s hair.  
  
The necromancer glanced down at it, curled his lip like its form offended his senses, then waved his hand, his dark nails shining in what little light could be found. Bone crunched, flesh bled from between its ribs, smoothing over the frame of its body. As they walked, something that looked much more like a man began to take shape.  
  
“Ah, Yylfordt, you’re lookin’ rough these days.” The necromancer said to his silent servant, his lilting tone dry. “I know I’m stretchin’ ya ta the limits of your pitiful soul, but best last a couple more years, dear servant, than you can retire.”  
  
Walking at the necromancer’s side, the lean figure Shirosaki took his appearance and youth from said nothing, and was as if incapable of even hearing the powerful man.  
  
In that next year, Ichigo was a busy young man. He held audience with tutors and scholars, servants and advisors near daily, learning and being groomed into the role that awaited him. He was taught the fineries of penmanship and of language, and even the arts, such as music and painting. No longer was he a little boy. No longer was he afforded time to roam and to play. When he wasn’t sitting inside, drinking in all that those around him could teach him, he was being coached in other things; swordsmanship, defense, battle strategies, horse training and riding.  
  
There was a lot to learn about being the future ruler of the kingdom. The date Shirosaki had set for them fast approached; the young prince’s seventeenth birthday.  
  
Late that night, after the castle fell silent and his sisters and father had gone to bed, Ichigo slipped from his room. Careful of the sound his hard-soled boots made upon the stone and wood flooring, he crept through the halls and down the stairs. He was unsurprised when a dark figure stood awaiting him at the front entrance. The young man had forgone his usual armor, but his sword was still belted to his hip and the hilt and scabbard caught the light of the single candle left burning nearby.  
  
As Ichigo approached, he shifted to block the doorway, as if he would stand in the prince’s way. Despite the lack of armor, he was still bigger than Ichigo, broader and more thickly built. In the shadows, Ichigo took note that his loyal guard wore his thick leather under padding, and boots meant for travel and riding.  
  
“Return to your bed, Prince.” Grimmjow warned as Ichigo paused before him. His voice was a quiet growl of a sound in the dark. All this time and he hadn’t forgotten what the future king had been tasked with on the night of his next birthday. Being at the young heir’s side nearly everyday, he knew Ichigo hadn’t forgotten either, nor given up on his silly dream to pursue the outlawed darker arts. “Nothing good will come of this.”  
  
Ichigo let a disapproving expression cloud his boyish features, and looked up at the guard. “Stand aside.” The tone he used made it obvious that it was less of a request and more of a command. When the guard remained unmoving, Ichigo’s frown deepened. “Going against orders from the heir to the throne is treason, Grimmjow…”  
  
Even then, the young man remained unmoving for a long moment, before blue eyes slid away and no longer matched brown. “If I cannot convince you not to go, then I would accompany you instead.”  
  
Ichigo’s unhappy scowl melted away, “Would that I could let you.” but he shook his head a bit. “You know I can’t bring you. Alone, he said, or his escort will not lead me to his fortress. His reasoning and logic was sound.”  
  
“The forest is dangerous at night.” Grimmjow growled, his stance squaring like he would physically hold the prince back if he had to. “He is dangerous.”  
  
Ichigo stood his ground, looking up at the taller man. He could see stubborn ice and hot fire in the crystallin gaze boring through him, but if their was one person more stubborn than the young guard, it was the prince he was sworn to protect. “Stand aside, Grimmjow.” He ordered again, lowly, “I will see you in the morning for my sparring lesson.”  
  
Grimmjow frowned and drew in a deep, even breath, but there was little he could do. He snarled a quiet sound and as he turned so that he no longer blocked the prince’s path, his motions were jerky and aggressive. “If you’re late,” He started as Ichigo walked by, “I will find you, and I will kill the necromancer.”  
  
Ichigo didn’t look back at him, but a slight smile tilted his lips, “If I do not return, I will expect nothing less.”  
  
He felt blue eyes track his movements, follow his every step all the way across the castle grounds and to the forest’s edge. The feeling only dissipated when he took his first step across the border, and was lost in cold shadows. The lightlessness was erie and a chilly mist swirled and undulated about his legs, so thick that he could nearly kick swaths through it.  
  
After he’d walked for several minutes and could no long turn to peer over his shoulder and see the castle looming beyond, he paused and cast a slightly wary gaze around his surroundings. As far as he could see in the near impenetrable shadows, no man stood waiting for him.   
  
“Hello?” He called quietly, carefully picking his way a few more steps. It wasn’t until he was nearly upon the creature that he saw the bone white horse standing near a tree. Fog rolled under its belly, between its legs but the thick moisture didn’t seem to bother the animal.  
  
As Ichigo approached, a frown on his features, the animal turned to regard him and its eyes were a familiar gold, though they swam in milky white and not black. A bridle of worn leather adorned the animal’s muzzle, but no reins or other tack marked it as having an owner nor rider. Yet, when he got within reach and laid a hand on the creature’s warm coat, it didn’t spook nor twitch unhappily under the touch.  
  
“Haven’t you a master?” Ichigo asked quietly, moving up to the horse’s head. The fur under his hands was course, kind of dry, but warm and shiny. As if in answer, the animal tossed its big head.  
  
Ichigo patted its neck and looked around, seeking sign of the horse’s rider. Surely whoever had brought the animal was meant to be his escort.  
  
After a moment, the horse seemed to grow impatient and it sidestepped, nearly pushing Ichigo over with its weight and strength. Stumbling under the unexpected push, Ichigo stepped back and looked up at the animal. As he did, the horse pushed its nose against his chest and pushed again, though much less roughly this time. It didn’t stop, despite the prince’s attempts at calming the animal, until fingers wrapped around the leather halter in the effort to pull the horse’s head away.  
  
When Ichigo pulled to the side, trying to guide the horse away from him so that it would quit, the horse pulled the opposite direction, and took a step further into the forest. When Ichigo released the halter, confused by the animal’s strange behavior, the horse stopped and again tossed its head, snorting a protest.  
  
“Whatever are you doing…?” He asked aloud, and moved to grab the horse’s halter again. Looking about, he again attempted to find a rider hidden somewhere in the dark. “Hello? Is there anyone out here?”  
  
Yet again, when he grabbed the leather halter, the animal began walking, half pulling him with it. Ichigo pulled back for a moment, until he was able to drag the big animal to a halt. Shaking his head like it was ridiculous, he slowly asked, “You’re meant to be my escort, aren’t you?”  
  
The horse tossed its mane and sidestepped again, until its rump nearly overbalanced the young prince again and Ichigo was forced to grab hold of the animal to keep from being knocked to the ground.  
  
“You could have just said so…” He half laughed under his breath, then moved up to the animal’s side and awkwardly fisted one hand in the base of the horse’s white mane. Sighing, he admitted, “This would be much easier with a saddle…”  
  
The horse whinnied an almost annoyed sound and dropped its head like it would attempt grazing from the forest floor for a moment, but as it raised its head again, its back convulsed. The motion was startling and harsh enough that Ichigo jerked his hands away, and took a step back from the animal. As he watched in mixed fascination and shock, a saddle horn of bone pressed through the horse’s white fur, right between its shoulder blades. Next, the concave shallow that made up the shape of a normal saddle began to bulge and press against the horse’s coat from the inside. The skin stretched around it and the animal’s only sign of discomfort was a small shifting in its steps as the saddle formed.  
  
When it was done, Ichigo was faced with a horse that had a built in saddle. Staring on at an utter loss for what he’d just witnessed, the horse grew impatient again and pushed its nose against his chest until he wrapped his fingers around the halter.  
  
“Ok, ok…” Ichigo mumbled to it as he very tentatively wrapped one hand around the bone saddle horn. It was smooth and cool below his palm, but still had a lively feel to it. It was so strange, repulsive even, but it was amazing. He laughed a small sound in the darkness and swung himself up into the saddle, fisting his hands into the horse’s dry, white mane. “A magical horse. I should have expected as much.”  
  
When his weight was settled, the animal started up in a light trot. It deftly maneuvered between trees and waded through the thick fog like the darkness and obscuring mist didn’t hinder its senses. After only a few minutes, the animal shifted seamlessly from a trot, to a swift canter and Ichigo bent closer against its neck as he held tight to the animal’s mane. If the rumors were true, and there were indeed monsters and demons lurking about in the forest, the young prince found no sign of them. The shadows around him weren’t empty though, of that, he was certain. Perhaps it was the same magic that had created the horse that kept the demons at bay.  
  
The journey seemed farther than Ichigo remembered from when he was a child, and much lonelier, but the strange horse made swift and easy work of the uneven terrain. It only slowed when the massive, black fortress was in sight. The heavy gate swung open to allow them entry and the animal didn’t require any guidance from its rider to trot up the narrow path, between rows of black-barked, twisted trees, and to the front entrance.  
  
When the animal stopped, Ichigo stared up at the intimidating structure the necromancer called his home and slid from the odd saddle. He took a moment to inspect the entryway and glance to either side, following the stretch of black brick with his gaze. Grimmjow’s warning and all the stories and rumors he’d heard over the years flooded back and he swallowed, a flicker of doubt worming into his mind.  
  
He quickly quelled the feeling, and trooped up the few cobbled stairs to the massive, wooden door. Just as he raised his fist to knock, the portal swung open on silent hinges and Ichigo flinched, though he supposed it shouldn’t have surprised him. Surely he was expected, after all.  
  
Taking a fortifying breath, the young prince stepped through and yawning doorway and made his way into the main entrance. The inside was exactly as he remembered; a rounded grand hall of sorts, lined with doorways. On one side, a staircase worked its way up to the second story. Candles lined the banister, each burned to exactly the same height as the one next to it. The flames flickered and danced with an invisible current of air.  
  
Ichigo frowned a bit, searching for pale skin and dark robes. Turning back toward the door, though, he was greeted only by Shirosaki’s silent servant. The man’s appearance seemed sudden and out of place.  
  
“Uh… hello…” Ichigo greeted awkwardly. His unease merely grew when the man said not a word, nor moved, or acknowledged him in anyway. “Ok then.” Ichigo half whispered, and turned back towards the stairs. He looked up their length, to the landing above, where he’d been led the first time he had been allowed into Shirosaki’s home.  
  
Sticking to the middle of the staircase, he steadily made his way up, then turned left at the top. It felt strange to wander the necromancer’s abode without the man in attendance, but it wasn’t an obtrusive or unwanted kind of strange. The doorway at the end was open, and Ichigo poked his head inside the study he’d seen before, “Good necromancer?” He called, letting his gaze sweep the room. Like before, rows of shelves were lined with jars and chests and boxes of all sizes and shapes. The bloodwood desk occupied one wall, a high backed chair facing it. All the candles had been extinguished, but the smell of smoke was absent.  
  
Backing from the room, Ichigo turned and made his way back down the stairs, where he hesitated before the main doorway again. Unsure what to do and not wanting to intrude upon the man’s home, the prince turned to the silent servant that still stood beside the now closed front door.  
  
“Umm…” Ichigo hesitated again, feeling almost silly for trying to speak to the man. He couldn’t remember the blond speaking before, when Shiro had recreated the prince’s dog, and certainly had yet to show that he could speak or even hear as Ichigo spoke this time around. “Could you perhaps show me where Shirosaki is?”  
  
To his surprise, the lean man nodded a single motion, then stepped past Ichigo and headed further into the fortress, silent and without a word. Ichigo quietly followed behind the servant, led towards the back of the main hall and through a corridor of dark stone and flickering candles. The air was cool, unwarmed by the small but many flames. There was an underlying dampness to it, like one would expect from an underground area, but no actual moisture or evidence of water could be found.  
  
When they made it to their apparent destination, the servant stopped to stand straight and silent beside a doorway, and Ichigo glanced up at him, before he quietly thanked the man and pushed the heavy door open. Light spilled out into the shadowy hallway and the smell of warm paper and ink drifted about the prince as Ichigo stepped inside. A library, Ichigo saw, filled with books and scrolls and instruments, the nature of which Ichigo was unsure of in most cases. The middle of the room was dominated by the large fur of a creature he couldn’t identify, turned into a plush and expensive rug.  
  
That was where Ichigo found the necromancer, seated crosslegged upon the warm rug with a mountain of books and rolled scrolls spread out around him. He looked up as the prince stepped through the door, the silent servant trailing behind him.  
  
Smiling, Shiro motioned for the young man to draw nearer, “I see Yylfordt didn’t entirely fail in leadin’ ya. I hope he didn’t give ya too much trouble.”  
  
“No, none at all.” Ichigo informed, moving closer. He found it strange how the necromancer remained seated upon the floor. In fact, perhaps it was silly, but he found the idea of the man seated and still at all strange. He always seemed moving and animated in a fluid way, from Ichigo’s impression of him, at any rate. He dismissed it, though, and glanced back at the silent servant with a speculative look. “Is he…” Pausing, he looked back to Shiro, “Is he one of your ghouls?”  
  
“Him?” Shirosaki let out something of a lilting chuckle and shook his head, “Oh no. Rarely do I make humans inta ghouls. No, he’s like that through no fault of magic.” The necromancer shifted like he would stand, then hid a wince, his hand going to his chest. “Yylfordt.” He called after a short moment, his voice holding a pinched quality to it.  
  
The servant moved closer and extended a hand, helping the necromancer to his feet. There was an unusual stiffness to the man’s motions that Ichigo had never seen before. He frowned, and waited patiently as Shirosaki straightened and seemed to take a moment to adjust to standing. Then the prince moved closer, disregarding the servant, and turned a look of concern upon the necromancer, “Are you unwell? I can come at another time, if you-”  
  
“No no.” The necromancer shook his head a bit, dismissing Ichigo’s suggestion. “Timing is everything in this stage,” He said with something of a smirk. Then he turned toward the door Ichigo had entered, “Bring these along, Yylfordt.” and led the way from the library.  
  
Ichigo followed at the necromancer’s side, but glanced over his shoulder, back at the silent servant as the man began collecting up the books and scrolls Shirosaki had been looking over.   
  
The necromancer smiled a sly expression and addressed the prince as he walked, “You are too kind for your own good, dear prince.”  
  
“That’s a lot for one man to carry…”  
  
“Nonsense.” The necromancer admonished, “Yylfordt possess more strength than he looks.”  
  
The colorless man, his dark robes almost shimmering in the darkness of his home, led them to another room. He pushed open the door with a vague wave of his hand, and allowed Ichigo to proceed him through. Within, a set of plush chairs of rich red material circled around a long, oval shaped table. A large fireplace took up nearly the entirety of the far wall, flames dancing warmly and much more lively than the candles about the fortress. Upon the mantle sat jars filled with small, smooth stones of various colors. Ichigo assumed they were more than just stones, or perhaps stones used in some sort of ritual, but he didn’t yet ask.  
  
Another deft motion of pale fingers and two chairs eased back, away from the table. “Make yourself comfortable, good prince.” The man bid as he walked the length of the table, towards the chairs he’d pulled out. On his way, he tapped one black nailed finger against the table’s polished top. “Set those here, Yylfordt, then go to the cellar and fetch some wine.” He paused, thinking for a moment, then, “And three chalices, if you like.”  
  
Ichigo started to take a chair, assuming it mattered little which of the two he chose, but paused and frowned again as he watched the necromancer begin easing himself down into the other. Pale features took on a very slight pinch of discomfort and when Shirosaki made it into the plush chair, he leaned back and seemed worn out, as if the walk from the library to the room they were in now had been too much for him. A lot could happen in a year’s time, true, but Ichigo had never seen him seem so drained of energy and life.  
  
“Are you sure you’re well?” He asked quietly, finally taking his own seat at the necromancer’s side.  
  
The pale man seemed to hesitate, before his strange, inverted eyes lifted to match the prince’s, “Speak of this ta no one, Ichigo, swear it and I will confide in you.”  
  
Ichigo frowned all the harder, but of course he nodded, “I swear.”  
  
“Good.” Shirosaki nodded as well, yet still he seemed to hesitate. He leaned back in his chair, taking a few moments to simply breathe, then glanced at Ichigo again. One hand moved up to clasp pale fingers around the collar of his robes. A simple motion unhooked the small buckles that fastened closed the front, and he peeled back the edge to reveal the stark white flesh of his throat and chest, as well as sickly black lines that seemed to be growing through his skin. It almost appeared as if they writhed under his skin, like dark tendrils trying to squeeze tight around his heart.  
  
Brown eyes widened as Ichigo stared for a moment, then his gaze shot back to the necromancer’s, meeting vivid, sickly gold.  
  
“It’s something of a condition, ya see,” The man began explaining, “it happens regularly, every thirty years or so, and there is only a small window of opportunity in which I can do anythin’ about it, even with all my magic. Should I miss that window, it would kill me.”  
  
“This is why you told me last year that you would be unable to escort me through the forest.”  
  
“It is,” Shirosaki nodded, “I knew it would be either this year or next.”  
  
Ichigo shook his head a bit, still frowning, “And yet you agreed to teach me, even knowing that you would be unwell…”  
  
The necromancer chuckled, his hand dropping from the edge of his robes to settle upon the arm of the plush chair he sat in. “I find myself enjoyin’ your company, Prince. And it’s not often I find someone so eager ta learn the arts, let alone from myself.”  
  
“What causes it, do you know?” Ichigo asked curiously, his gaze following the tendrils that spidered over the pale skin of the necromancer’s chest and up his throat.  
  
“It was not always thus,” Shirosaki shrugged, “Too many centuries of backed up magic, I suppose. There is a reason my talents are regarded as dark magic. Necromancy is a dangerous and often messy thing. Worry not, though, I can teach you the arts without it being specific to necromancy and in any case, you would have to live and practice many many decades for this build up to occur.”  
  
Yylfordt returned with a carafe of wine and three stemmed glasses. He wordlessly set them upon the table in front of his master, and Shirosaki nodded his approval, reached for the wine to begin pouring three glasses. Ichigo was a bit surprised when the man passed a hand over one of the glasses, then handed it to his servant, before handing a different one to Ichigo, and pouring one for himself.  
  
“What did you do to his?” Ichigo asked, glancing over at the blond servant as the man moved to stand at the far end of the table quietly, the wine in hand.  
  
Shiro smirked conspiratorially, “Though it’s hard to see, he worries terribly about my condition. I’ve made his a touch stronger, so that he’ll get some sleep this night. But never mind all that, there is nothing I can do about it just yet, so let us get started.”  
  
Ichigo smiled at that, finding it an oddly sweet gesture. He sipped at his wine as the necromancer pulled a scroll toward them, and began unrolling it.  
  
They sat there in the glow and warmth of the hearth for many hours, as the necromancer pointed out certain information and suggested what Ichigo should focus his attention on more so than what he would ultimately find useless just yet. Many of the books and scrolls Shirosaki had were written in the same penmanship and the intimate familiarity of which the man knew them led Ichigo to believe Shirosaki had probably written them himself. Decades of hard work and study sat opened up before the young prince, knowledge that the rest of the world would likely never know of.  
  
At some point in the night, the necromancer got up to stock the hearth with more wood to keep the warm flames alive. Ichigo helped him after seeing how physically weakened the strange man seemed. After reclaiming his seat, the necromancer sent his servant away for the night. The silent man bowed ever so slightly as he was bid a restful slumber, then turned and left the room.  
  
“Does he speak?” Ichigo asked curiously, watching after the servant’s retreating form. It didn’t really occur to him that he could have been asking inappropriate or private questions, he was simply curious.  
  
The necromancer seemed not to mind, “Rarely. Only when asked a direct question that requires a worded response.”  
  
“Might I ask how he came to be under your care?” Ichigo asked. He’d seen the servant years ago, when he’d been but a boy and he’d even asked a few questions about him then as well, but Shiro hadn’t seemed forthcoming with answers. This past visit, however, the strange necromancer seemed far more friendly and less mysterious. Ichigo didn’t know if it was an effect of his illness, or perhaps simply that he’d better gotten to know the man, and thus formed something of trust between them. Whatever the case, it only fed the young prince’s curiosity.  
  
But like before when he’d asked too invasively about the servant, Shirosaki merely smiled, “That is a tale for another time.”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Ichigo chuckled a sheepish laugh and rubbed at one arm, “my apologies.”  
  
“No need, dear prince.” Waving it off, the elder turned back to the books spread out in front of them. After going over a few more things, and giving out a few more pointers, Shiro decided to wrap things up. He was confident that he’d given the prince plenty to think on and more than enough to keep him intrigued and infatuated with magic and the necromancer himself.  
  
As he stiffly straightened from his chair, he and Ichigo began stacking the books and rolling the scrolls back up. “I will send these with you. Feel free to take notes and even write in them, but do not let them be taken from you. I will expect you to bring them back upon your return.” Easing away from the long table, he crossed the short distance to the fireplace, and pulled a satchel from it’s top, then returned and began carefully arranging the books and scrolls within. “In one year’s time, you will return as ya did this time. My escort will be awaiting, but will only guide ya if you come alone. Come the night before you turn eighteen, prepare to stay a bit longer. I will need help, and we will need time ta prepare for the ritual that will awaken your greatest power. Then we will begin your training in ernest.”  
  
Ichigo nodded, committing the instructions to memory as the heavy bag was passed to him.  
  
With the elegant motion of one hand, the necromancer showed the prince from the room and began guiding him through the fortress, back toward the entrance. Shadows seemed to roll in behind them, thick and impenetrable, the kind that hid monsters. Ichigo thought himself childish for thinking such things, and banished the thought.  
  
As they walked, the necromancer deftly refastened the front of his robes, hiding the sickly black that coiled tight around his neck and chest. When they made it to the front entrance, he manually pulled open the heavy door and let it remain obvious as he winced under the strain.  
  
Outside, standing exactly where it had stopped hours ago, the strange magical construct that had brought Ichigo there was waiting. It tossed its mane impatiently and Shirosaki chuckled. “He will take ya back, and stop at the edge of the forest again. Unfortunately you’ll have to carry those the rest of the way into your home, good prince.”  
  
“It’s no trouble.” Ichigo smiled brightly, and hefted the satchel up so that it hung around the strange saddle horn jutting from the creature’s back. He turned a bright smile over his shoulder as he began mounting up, “Thank you for this.”  
  
“It’s my pleasure, Prince. You’ve true power in you, I look forward to our next meeting.”  
  
Seated in the makeshift saddle that protruded from the horse’s back, Ichigo fisted his hands in the creature’s mane as it turned about without prompt and began the trek back to the castle. It trotted down the long path that led through the necromancer’s land, between the rows of twisted black trees and Ichigo looked back over his shoulder to see the pale man grinning at him as he left.  
  
It wasn’t until the naive young prince was out of sight that Shirosaki turned back to his fortress like home. The heavy wooden doors swung shut behind him, noiseless despite their weight. The castle of black stone had sat there undisturbed for generations untold. He’d had it built when he’d still been included among the living, back when he’d been a young and wealthy baron just starting to dabble in magic. The ruling king of the time had gifted him with a hefty sum of gold for his services, and Shirosaki had put it to good use, building himself a home to rival the king’s own, and one that was far more defensible should the need arise.  
  
He’d been right to do so. As it turned out, that king had quickly found out the down side of bringing back the mistress who’d been killed by her jealous husband. Thinking himself slighted, the king had come after Shirosaki, and very nearly killed him. But it was hard to kill a man learning to master the magic of life and death.  
  
The necromancer smirked to himself as he traversed his abode, back to the hall he’d entertained the young prince in.   
  
In those times, he’d gone through a soul nearly every year to keep himself from succumbing to the life stealing wound the king’s assassin had inflicted upon him. But that was long ago, when he’d been young and still looked young. Now he was an ancient man, a being that could likely no longer be called a man at all. He’d only managed to make a single soul last about thirty years, roughly half of the unfortunate victim’s life span, in all his centuries of practice, but he not only used those souls to fuel his life and his power, but he used them to keep his youthful appearance as well. Through his unrivaled magic, he used that single soul to sustain himself in many ways, and yet he still split the power, and kept the soul’s body as a near mindless servant too.  
  
His power was indeed great.  
  
Shirosaki chuckled a darkly amused sound and with deft motions, he yanked the heavy robes from his shoulders, dropping them to lay across the back of the chair the prince had occupied. Like smoke, the edges seemed wispy, and to bleed into the shadows creeping out from under the table. The six black tendrils that spidered across his chest throbbed through his pale flesh, converging in the very center, like they could bore a long overdue hole through his body and seek a heart that was no longer there.  
  
He ignored the unwelcome but familiar ache, and picked up the prince’s forgotten wine goblet from the long table. He peered within as he sloshed the last swallow around in the bottom, and his smirk only grew all the wider. Binging the glass up under his nose, he inhaled deeply the flavor. The smell of it was like a powerful aphrodisiac to the power-hungry man.   
  
Pulling the glass back again, he upturned its contents into the palm of one pale hand. Vibrant, blood red wine trickled between his fingers, warm and unappetizing, but heady all the same. The glass dropped from his other hand, shattering across the stone flooring. He paid it no mind as he clasped his hand overtop the other, like he could trap the wine within his closed palms and hold it close.  
  
Behind him upon the mantle, hundreds of little round stones worn smooth shone in the light of the dying fire, reflecting the dance of the flames from within their glass jars. Rolling his hands together, like trying to ball up dough between them, he turned to leave the room. His bare feet crunched over the broken glass but gashes the shards tore through pale flesh healed before they could even bleed. The extra damage inflicted upon his body wasn’t good for the dwindling soul he was living off of, but he had only another year to stretch out Yylfordt’s weakening life.  
  
The necromancer worked his hands together as he walked up the staircase that led to the second story of his home. He grinned the whole way. The expression was pleased in a sharp way, dangerous and manic and filled with white teeth. The muscle of his lean arms strained as he pressed tight against the spilled wine in his hands. His jaw clenched under the effort but still he rolled his hands together, kneading and shaping what lay between them.  
  
When he made it to his destination, the room he called his own, he was panting through flared nostrils. Harsh breaths hissed between his clenched and bared teeth and he shouldered the door to his personal chambers open, nearly collapsing in the process.  
  
Knelt and miserable in the middle of his master’s room, Yylfordt slowly looked up with glittering, yet dull red eyes. Deep crimson, nearly black, dripped from between his lips, running down his chin and neck in thick, tar like rivulets. The wine Shiro had given him was no longer digestible to the silent servant, as the necromancer knew it wouldn’t be, and now it was forcefully rejected. In the back of his magic-laced mind, Yylfordt had known it wouldn’t be either, but he was incapable of going against anything his master bid.  
  
“Clean that up when you’re done.” The necromancer rasped, stumbling past the silent man, his hands still clasped out in front of him. He curled his lip at the black, sticky mess in the middle of his chambers, but dismissed it in favor of the heat and steady pulse of the object held between his hands.  
  
When he made it to the massive straw mattress in the center of his room, he dropped upon it to sit at its edge, then finally opened up his red stained hands. Nestled in one palm, a small, rounded stone sat. Smooth like he’d pulled it from a river, it sparkled in the dim lighting. Nearly white, like an unmuddied diamond from the treasured jewels of the king’s coffers.  
  
Shiro grinned down at it. What a pretty color for the prince’s soul to take. “True power, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Ichigo made it back to the opposite edge of the forest and dismounted, the sky was beginning to lighten upon the horizon. Pulling the bag from where it had hung upon the saddle horn, Ichigo slung it over one shoulder. He got hardly more than a step when the strange horse thundered off and disappeared into the shadows. Staring after it for a moment, Ichigo left the trees behind and made for the castle, hoping he could slip in before anyone too important woke up.

 

When he made it through the yard, he found only a few guards standing at their posts, but they would say nothing, and merely bowed as he passed them. Candles had been lit in the kitchen, but that was easy enough to avoid, and he quickly skirted the area and trooped up the stairs to the second floor where his room was located as quickly and quietly as he could. The books were a heavy weight upon his shoulder, but he did his best not to jostle them around too badly, lest he damage the apparently precious objects.

 

To his complete surprise, when he made it to the door of his chambers, he found that he had company. Stripped of the light armor he’d been wearing the night before, Grimmjow sat slumped against the door, his head bowed and knees pulled up. The sword that had been belted to his hip sat cradled across his lap, sheathed still.

 

Ichigo took a moment to smile down at him, before unceremoniously nudging him a little harder than need be with the toe of his boot. He had to stifle his laughter when Grimmjow jerked awake with a surprised grunt, his hand wrapping tight around the handle of his sword.

 

“Come.” He half whispered, nodding toward the door of his room as he twisted the handle to enter.

  
“Prince…” Grimmjow frowned hard at him, and climbed to his feet to follow behind the young prince. There was an obvious hint of surprised relief and curiosity to his voice, “Ichigo, you met with the necromancer?”

 

“Of course.” Ichigo grinned at him, dropping the satchel of books onto his desk with a dull thud. “It was just as he’d said. An escort awaited me at the forest’s edge, and took me to his fortress. And I see you hadn’t expected for me to be gone so late.”

 

“I hadn’t expected for you to return at all,” The guard growled back, “and upon your failure to return with the sun, I was prepared to be the first to ride out in search.”

 

“Well it’s good that you intended to be well rested, then.” Ichigo turned away, hiding his amused expression as he pulled free the books and cleared space for them upon his desk. He received another growl for his teasing. “Honestly, Grimmjow, you worried needlessly. He was a generous host and a much kinder man than you give him credit for.”

 

“For that I am relieved.” The guard admitted, “I pray you’re done with him.”

 

“Not likely,” Ichigo muttered, but quickly changed the subject. “We’ve a couple more hours before my lesson. I would rest, if you don’t mind.”

 

Grimmjow frowned a bit, but bowed slightly, “Of course not, prince.” then backed back out the doorway. Before he got far, Ichigo called quietly to him.

 

“Please, Grimmjow, speak of this to no one.”

 

He let his displeasure seep into his expression, but nodded all the same, before continuing from the room and heading for the staircase. Ichigo was left to himself and climbed wearily into bed. No doubt his sparring partner that day would make quick work of him.

 

A scant few hours later, Ichigo found himself out behind the castle, in a private courtyard hidden away within the walls. Flowering vines climbed the harsh stone, reaching toward the early morning sun. The color and fragrance was lively and refreshing, but the prince was anything but awake.

 

After the fourth mark against him, he dropped his sparring sword and threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat and turned towards his instructor with a worn sigh. A step away and facing him, Grimmjow lowered his blunted blade as well, and shook his head.

 

From across the courtyard, where he sat with his advisers and spoke of business, Isshin frowned in his son’s direction. The boy was sluggish and tired, but his guard and sparring partner seemed less than surprised and uncharacteristically quiet about it. Normally, Grimmjow was a cocky sparring partner, jeering and prodding his son into a lively dual. It was half the reason Isshin had allowed the guard to start sparring with the prince in the first place, rather than an actual instructor. It helped that the two had known each other since Ichigo had been but a boy, before Grimmjow had become a member of the royal guard after the death of his father.

 

The king knew he shouldn’t have allowed them to get so close. His son was the future king, royalty and pure, while the blue haired young man was a peasant, muddied, and a mere guard. But the two were good for each other, and while they’d both just been kids, there was no harm in it. Now, however… He often wondered how long it would take his oblivious son to realize how truly fond of him the guard had grown.

 

“We’re done with this.” Ichigo announced, stepping over his dropped sword and heading for the arched gateway that would lead back into the castle proper. “It’s doing no one any good.”

 

The instructor turned to watch him go, looking almost as frustrated as the prince, but more or less powerless to go against the young man’s wishes. Half a beat later, Grimmjow handed his practice blade over to the instructor, handle first, and picked up his real sword as he carded past the man and followed behind the young prince.

 

Isshin merely shook his head, watching the two disappear from the yard, “Someday those two will catch on.” 

 

Beside him, an advisor noted where his attention had fallen and dared speak, “Perhaps that’s what happened to have disrupted the prince’s mood so, Sire.”

 

The king grunted, shook his head again, “Perhaps it is.” and finally turned back to the work before him. A moment later, his frown deepened as it sank it what his advisor may have been getting at.

 

Later that evening, the king found his son hidden away in his rooms, hard at work and studying the mountain of books he’d spread across his desk. Upon his entry, the prince looked up sharply, and eased the large book closed as he watched his father approach. Little did Isshin know, the book wasn’t for his studies, “What ails you this day, son?”

 

“Nothing, father,” Ichigo sighed, absently flipping the book over so that it’s blank back cover was the only part visible, He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out before him, “merely tired.” Something of a grin tugged at his features as he climbed to his feet and faced his old man with a surely expression, “I think a day off is in order.”

 

Isshin chuckled and clapped his hand upon his son’s shoulder as they turned from the room, “Kings do not get days off.”

 

“Then it’s good I’m not yet king, isn’t it?” Ichigo replied as they both exited his room. In truth, he hadn’t the energy or the desire to be out and about at that moment and would have preferred to bury himself in his bed with one of the texts Shirosaki had sent with him, but deferring his father’s attention from such things was more wise.

 

Later that afternoon, after Ichigo had wandered off and Isshin had returned to his duties as king, Grimmjow finally rejoined his charge. As the sun reached and passed the midway point in the sky and the shadows began to lengthen, the guard dared the edge of the forest, knowing full well where the prince would go to avoid everyone else. He first insured he was alone and unfollowed, before stepping from castle grounds and into the forest. He made it all of twenty paces, just where the light of day began to bleed out amongst the perpetual darkness of the forbidden forest, when he was halted by a familiar voice.

 

“Didn’t you know, Grimmjow, these woods are haunted?”

 

“Truly, Ichigo?” The bigger lad grinned as he rounded a thick trunk and, without actually looking at his younger companion, slid to sit at its base. “Than it seems no place for heirs to the throne to go without their guards.”

 

Beside him, Ichigo smiled, a book spread open upon his lap. He didn’t bother looking up, still half immersed in the world of magic and taboo he studied. “What fortune that my guard has happened upon me, then.”

 

The guard took one look and knew exactly what it was the prince read from. Ichigo wasn’t interested in the throne, never really had been. He was an adventurous sort, and young too, the only male born to a widowed king whom refused to remarry. The burden of future rulership was ever upon his shoulders, but it was training and teachings and studies and grooming he was forced to endure alone.

 

Grimmjow sighed a noiseless breath and pulled his sheathed sword around so that it sat across his lap, relaxed but within easy reach. Just in case. “Haven’t seen them in a while, how fair your sisters?”

 

Ichigo finally looked up from his book, though not at the young man at his side. His gaze traveled upward, studying the tops of trees not far off. “This morning seemed a good one.” He said, a small shrug accompanying his words, “Karin was up a bit, sitting in her chair. Yuzu is mostly bedridden still, but…”

 

The guard nodded and the sentence went unfinished.

 

The twins had been sickly all their lives, born frail from a dead womb. The queen had struggled through the first daughter, Karin, but her life gave out with one babe still within. None thought the two would survive, not even the king. But they had and while not strong in body, both were brilliant in mind. 

 

Karin liked to discuss battle tactics with the royal army’s commander when he visited her father. She’d even beat him a few times with their games of strategy. And Yuzu could read and write like no one else in all the kingdom. A scholar, she had told Ichigo once; she wanted to study and learn all about the world and its workings.

 

Ichigo wished with everything he had that he could make her strong enough to travel, to see the world and visit all the places she wanted to study. He wished he could make Karin strong enough to ride a horse, or train in swordsmanship. No one understood, not even Grimmjow; God wasn’t answering his prayers, but maybe the necromancer could. Maybe Shirosaki could give him the answers he sought, and in return, when Ichigo was king, maybe he could use what he learned to alleviate the citizens of their fear and ignorance, and welcome an outcasted man back into the city.

 

The prince watched with a little detachment as a calm breeze rustled the tops of the trees. A few leaves shed, floating peacefully to the forest floor, caring very little of the world around them. Ichigo tracked their rhythmic, fluttering movements until they fell still. They looked just like any of the other leaves littering the ground. Then he went back to his book. 

 

At his side, his guard was silent.

 

And so went the days. The young prince Ichigo spent his mornings in the spotlight of his future kingdom, training and learning all that his father and his tutors could get to stick. Then, sometime after he grew tired or had finished his tasks, he would retreat to his room and the books and scrolls he had hidden there. He drank in all that those ancient tomes had to give him, scrawled in careful, curling script. He learned about the channels and paths magic followed and flowed through in the body. He read about the different flavors of magic; good and evil, earth based or astrology based, learned verses natural talent. And accompanying each lesson or chapter, more hand written interludes from the author -Shirosaki himself- detailed personal experiences and findings. The wealth of knowledge and information the necromancer had so willingly handed him was incredible, and yet despite how much studying and training he did, no matter how much he pushed through the clogging, cloying channels in his own mind and body, Ichigo could do little more than parlor tricks by the time he finished reading through all those books and scrolls. All that help, hours and hours of practice and trial and error, and he had so little to show for it.

 

Late one night, long after the king and castle staff had retired for the evening, Ichigo dressed and padded from his room, a candle in hand to light his way and a book tucked under his arm. Down the stairs he went, and turned for the entrance to the castle, but first, before he left altogether, he passed it by and ducked down a mostly unfurnished, nondescript corridor that ran along the outer wall of the castle. This was where the quarters of the live-in staff were located; maids, kitchen crew, the stable boy, the guard commander. Generally, if a member of the royal family had need of someone who stayed there, a messenger would be sent with a summons, despite it being so nearby. However, despite having not traveled the corridor often, Ichigo remembered where his destination was from his time at play as a child.

 

He hadn’t far to go, as he counted three doors down on the left side. Pausing before his destination, he shifted his light source to his other hand and raised his fist to knock upon the door, as loud about it as he dared. It didn’t take him long to get a response.

 

It being the middle of the night and all, a summon would only come if the situation was urgent. So when he was jolted awake by a knock on his door, Grimmjow nearly tripped springing from his bed. He hurried across the room half dressed, and flung the door wide, only to see his younger charge standing before him, looking amused and maybe a bit sheepish, but certainly not panicked or distraught.

 

Arching a brow in a very unamused expression, the guard glanced down each side of the hallway around the prince, then leveled his chilling blue gaze at the heir himself. “You realize it’s the middle of the night?”

 

Ichigo barely stifled his laugh and couldn’t hope to hide the amusement on his features as he glanced at the half naked man. Nodding, he took a quick look around himself to insure he’d not woken up anyone else, then pushed his way into the guard’s room so that he could close the door and not be caught standing in the middle of the hall in the middle of the night. “Yes I do, Grimmjow. Get dressed, quickly.”

 

The larger man frowned a bit, but turned and snagged his pants. “Where are we going?” He asked as he pulled them up, ignoring how improper it was for the prince to be there at all, let alone while he was in such a state of undress. 

 

“Out.” Ichigo said unhelpfully, but he reached across himself and pulled the book from under his arm to show the nondescript cover to his guard.

 

“More magic.” The big man grated as he began pulling an undershirt on. 

 

“More magic.” Ichigo confirmed, “I’ve got to practice or I’ll never figure it out.”

 

Tugging on his boots, a lopsided, half-grin tugged at one corner of Grimmjow’s lips, “After all the times you’ve ventured into the forest or snuck out alone, since when have you required me to practice? You’re not going to try turning me into a frog or something, are you?”

 

Ichigo laughed, but shook his head, “No no, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’re safe.”

 

Not more than a few minutes later, the candle the prince had carried left wispy, thin black smoke curling through the air in his guard’s room as the two scurried through the castle grounds, out toward the stables.

 

“He’s a beautiful animal.” Grimmjow commented as he pulled open the high-walled stable door to the prince’s favorite horse. The animal needed no prompting to perk its ears up and tread through the doorway. It walked right up to Ichigo, expecting treats despite that it was the middle of the night.

 

“Yes he is.” Ichigo agreed, pulling a carrot from his pocket for the well bred stallion. Even just studding this horse out just once was worth more than his guard could ever hope to earn in an entire year.

 

While Ichigo spoiled his horse, Grimmjow selected one of the war horses from the opposite end of the stable; a strong but easy going beast that knew well when it was time for a fight and when it wasn’t. The two saddled up and, Ichigo in the lead, rode from the high ceilinged stable and out across the castle gardens.

 

They turned down the main path that lead through town but didn’t stay there long. After only a few minutes of trotting through the city, they turned down a smaller street, then a smaller still, until Grimmjow finally caught on to where they were headed.

 

Frowning, the guard clicked his tongue and brought his horse up alongside Ichigo’s. “The river…” He stated more than asked, glancing over at his young charge.

 

Ichigo grinned a sly expression, “Yes, the river.” But before they actually left the road, the prince guided them upstream a ways, and only then did he guide his horse from the trail and head towards the river bottom. The water was cleaner here, and the chances of running into other people was greatly reduced.

 

Sliding from his saddle, he guided his mount to the nearest sturdy tree and tied the reins off. Standing aside, he watched Grimmjow dismount and follow his lead for a moment, before turning towards the darker shadows of the woods around the river.

 

“In his book,” He said, quiet in the quieter dark, and held up the book with a small shake, “he says that running water as from a stream or river makes for a good conduit. It should help channel power, I guess.”

 

Grimmjow looked skeptical at best, and maybe a bit unamused about the early hour.

 

Ichigo merely shrugged.

 

The two ended up wading out into knee deep water, the book left safely on dry land as Ichigo tried a few simple tricks he’d read about in it. For a long while, he could get nothing to happen and his frustrations were beginning to show. Just like the book had instructed, his motions were simple and repetitive as he tried to channel energy from his body and through his hands the way he’d seen the necromancer. Shirosaki had been able to open doors and pull out chairs. Simple things, sure, but there was precision and a stunning lack of effort to it. Yet Ichigo stood in the middle of a river, surrounded by all manner of much smaller, much lighter things and he couldn’t even move a small rock he’d set up on a larger rock.

 

He grit his teeth and tried again, scowling at his offending target.

 

Standing quietly on the other side of the boulder and far more patiently than the prince had expected, Grimmjow watched with slight downward tilt to his lips and crossed arms. Like most people, he knew next to nothing about magic, but he did know that what he was watching looked off. He’d never really seen the necromancer in action, not like Ichigo apparently had, but he was used to seeing the young prince move. He was accustomed to the way the heir’s form and body worked, and what he watched now in that river was beginning to remind him a lot of their earlier sparring days. The grace was just within reach, the raw talent obvious for all to see. It lacked refinement, just as it had been when the prince first had a sword in his hand.

 

“Ichigo,” The guard finally interrupted, edging a step closer, “slow your movements. You can work on speed later. First rhythm and balance.”

 

Ichigo frowned at the sudden coaching, but after a moment of thought, his brows unfurrowed a bit and took a deep breath as he began again. Exactly as the book suggested, and slowed to follow what his sparring partner said, the prince’s simple movements were smooth and graceful and precise. He remembered what the necromancer had explained all that time ago; how his movements, his hands, were merely extensions of what was already in his head. So he concentrated on what he wanted to happen as he did so.

 

It wasn’t much, but when Ichigo’s hands came back around, he thought…maybe… “It moved! Did you see it?”

 

Across the bolder, cool water flowing around his knees and filling his leather riding boots, Grimmjow frowned over at the prince and arched a brow. He shook his head, “I didn’t see anything.” He glanced down at the fist sized rock they’d placed upon the bolder’s top, certain it was in the exact same place as before. “It’s dark, I think you’re-“

 

“No.” Ichigo scowled, “It did! Pay more attention this time. What kind of guard are you if you can’t pay attention to what’s around you?”

 

The bigger man shot the prince an angry, indignant look and Ichigo half ducked his head, an amused little smile twitching at his lips.

 

“Honestly though, pay attention this time.” He said as he once again began trying to move the rock with nothing more than his mind. Again, he kept his motions slow, gentle almost, and as careful as he could remember to be. Trying to get the hang of channeling magic was a lot harder work than it had right to be, though, and more tiring than it sounded. After the third try, he was growing frustrated again and Grimmjow was standing there watching him, waiting, with that natural smugness to his expression.

 

Ready to give up and call it a night, after the fifth try Ichigo threw his hands up in defeat, an annoyed, frustrated sound creeping from his tongue. He was just turning on his heel to storm from the river’s cool water when a startled sound caught his attention and he glanced over at his companion in time to see blue eyes go wide in the dark. 

 

Grimmjow ducked, hearing the sharp whistle of a fast moving object sail just past him. He rose back to his full height in a rush of splashing water and anger, and glared at the prince, “What the hell was that for?!” He growled in the dark, rounding the boulder toward the younger man.

 

“I didn’t mean it-“ Ichigo defended as the bigger man approached with obvious ire, “I didn’t mean to!” But a wide, disbelieving smile was slowly taking over his handsome features as he stared at the place the rock had been. Thrown by his outburst, it had nearly hit his unsuspecting guard. There’d been no control to it, no finesse or direction. But still, Ichigo had accomplished what he’d been trying for. “Did you see this time?” He asked with a laugh, grabbing hold of Grimmjow’s arm in his excitement.

 

The guard fought to hold his displeased scowl in the face of the prince’s exuberance, “Next time, warn me that I’ll need my helmet.” He sighed and shook his head, and lost his battle as a bit of a smirk found his lips, “Yes I saw this time.” 

 

They called it a night an hour or so later, after several more failed attempts. The most the young prince could do on purpose was make the target of his magic roll dully and un-energetically. After much more frustrations, they remounted and turned their horses back toward the sleeping castle. The sun was just beginning to color the far horizon as they left the stables and walked across the yards, side by side.

 

“Thank you for accompanying me, Grimmjow.” Ichigo said quietly as they entered the castle and neared the first corridor. “Sleep well.”

 

“Good night, prince.” The guard replied, his rough voice equally low in the silent castle. He watched from the mouth of the hallway as Ichigo continued further into his home and deeper into the castle proper, then returned to his own room.

 

In the coming days, weeks, months even, the prince studied harder than ever. His duty as heir to the throne came first, of course, but more because it had to than because he wanted it to. As much and as often as he could, he buried himself in his books and scrolls and the words of his absent tutor.

 

When he thought of the things he’d seen the necromancer do, things like bring a dog back to life and create a horse… Well, it only served to further prove how powerful the strange man was. Shirosaki had become powerful over years, decades, whole generations. Not a handful of months that almost totaled a year. 

 

Seated in his room, he dropped his head into his hand, massaging against his temples as the candles that lit the room burned low. He waved his other hand absently and the normally thick smoke of burnt wax and wick dissipated like it had never been there. The books and scrolls and things he’d been so diligently studying for the past eleven months and more were spread out and open, scattered across the desk, the bed, the floor. 

 

In the morning, a party to celebrate his eighteenth birthday and coming of age was to be held in the castle gardens. Half the kingdom was to be there; lords and landowners and high ranking noblemen. Ichigo had practically begged his father not to go through with it, but the king had insisted. He didn’t realize his son wouldn’t be attending the party.

 

With a sigh, Ichigo sat back in his chair and began rolling up the scroll directly in front of him, “I know you don’t understand, but I have to go, Grimmjow.”

 

The door opened with a quiet creak and in walked the guard, a blue brow arched but not in amusement. “Well you’re certainly improving in that.” He commented dryly, glancing around the room.

 

Ichigo shook his head, but managed a small smile, “I finally figured out how to ward the door. It’s actually really easy. I knew it was you before you even got all the way up the stairs.”

 

The guard grunted and bent to pick up a heavy, leather-bound book. The cover was more like the tanned hide of a saddle than the smooth, carefully stretched leather of most books. He closed it as he straightened, tossing it to the desk the prince sat at. The resounding thud made the young man jump, and the rough handling earned the guard a sharp look, as he knew it would. “Then why do you need the necromancer? You’re figuring it out on your own.” They’d had the same conversation almost weekly. He knew he’d never sway the stubborn young prince’s mind, but what kind of royal guard would he be if he didn’t at least try.

 

“I’m still disappointed in you, Grimmjow, of all people I would have thought it would be you that understood, even encouraged me to find such an adventure as learning magic with a supposedly dangerous man.” Stacking the books carefully, he moved to collect the ones strewn across his bed. “Perhaps even try to join me. But instead you think me a fool.”

 

“I don’t think you a fool, Ichigo, I think you young and naive.”

 

The prince scowled and snorted an unamused laugh. “Yes, and you’re so much older and wiser than I.” He tied a strap around the stack of books and began carefully arranging them in the bag he’d brought them to the castle in. “You’re a castle guard, Grimmjow. You outrank the citizens, but you hold no authority over me.”

 

“I didn’t take this position for that.” The guard crossed his arms over his chest as he watched, knowing he’d offended the young prince.

 

“You did it to be better than what your father was.” 

 

“Yes, at first. But I accomplished that long ago. I wanted to be _your_ guard, Ichigo. You’re my friend, and you’re important to a lot of people.” He watched the prince’s movements and packing pause, but before Ichigo could draw any conclusions or begin asking questions, he continued, “What am I supposed to tell your father?”

 

“Tell him nothing.” Ichigo said with a sigh, pulling an envelope from the folds of a riding cloak that hung near his desk. He held it up for the guard to see, than laid it upon his pillow. “He’ll send you to fetch me when he thinks I’m late, he always does. Give this to him, it will tell him all he needs to know; that I needed a few days to myself, to focus on things for my own reasons.”

 

“He’s going to be furious with you.”

 

“Yes he is, but if when I get back I can make Yuzu healthy, and Karin strong, he’ll forgive me.”

 

Blue brows pinched together as Grimmjow studied the prince. There was nothing in that statement that wasn’t true. The cause was so nobel and the words were so hopeful, befitting of the future king. “I’ve just one last question, in attempts to sway your mind. If the necromancer is as good a man as you think him to be, why hasn’t he come here to help your sisters on his own?”

 

“I haven’t asked him to.” Ichigo answered simply, “I have no doubt that he would try, should I ask it of him, and in truth, if I cannot find a way to do it myself, I might resort to it. But he wasn’t well during my last visit, and you know as well as I that my father would never allow him into the castle, let alone anywhere near my sisters.”

 

With that, Ichigo hoisted the heavy satchel of books over his shoulder and turned for his door. As he pushed it open, he was unsurprised by the hand that clapped over his other shoulder.

 

“When should we expect you back, prince?” 

 

Ichigo smiled, “Ichigo.” He corrected, then answered, “A few days, as it says in the letter to my father. The day after my birthday, I suspect, or the next, but surely no longer than a few. He said he would need help before we begin, and we start with the beginning of my eighteenth year.”

 

It was the night before his birthday, which put his estimate at being gone for three days, four at the most. Grimmjow nodded. “If in a week’s time you’ve not returned-“

 

“If I’ve not returned and not sent word, than I expect nothing less than to see you charging to my aide.” Making to continue, Ichigo reached up and patted the hand holding him in place, “You worry needlessly. I’ll not keep you waiting long.”

 

The guard released the prince, but curled his fingers around the strap of the satchel and lifted it’s weight from the younger man. Slinging it around his own shoulder, he motioned for Ichigo to proceed him. “I hope you’re right.”

 

Once they’d made it through the castle yards and to the tree line, the walk silent, Grimmjow handed the heavy bag over again. He took his leave without another word, knowing he wasn’t allowed to accompany the man he was sworn to protect.

 

Ichigo watched him go, watched the strength to his form and the smoothness to his stride. Then he turned and set out into the forest as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon.

 

Wide, leafy branches loomed high overhead, dark and shadowy. The bag was heavy against his shoulder, but he hardly noticed it as he began the careful, not quite hesitant trek into the woods. He kept his eye open, looking for the pale shape of the necromancer’s strange horse in the dark. All around him, the shadows crept in like slithering, tentacled beasts and for some reason, it reminded him of the necromancer’s home. The entire forest felt dark and crawling and the young prince was reminded why people didn’t dare stay in the forest after nightfall.

 

He rounded a thick tree, trying to retrace the steps he’d taken nearly a year ago. Not much had changed. Not much about the forest ever changed, even after winter stripped bare it’s leaves and spring regrew them. The dark forest was always thus; dark and forbidding and unchanging. But in its forever unchanging state, the entirety of it looked the same. This tree looked just like the next, and the next after that. Aside from general direction, there was no telling if he was getting anywhere at all.

 

But he kept going all the same, his pace measured but steady as he looked and listened. The opening in the trees behind him that marked where the castle sat and village began disappeared, closed by distance and the dense foliage and shadows. Tucked safely within the castle, his sisters and father slept, his guard and friend sat alone and awake in his room, and there Ichigo was, lost in darkness and damp leaves. If there was ever a time in all his life that he felt truly alone, this was it.

 

He hadn’t traveled long, however, and soon enough, as he pulled his riding tunic tighter about himself and readjusted the heavy bag over his shoulder, the stamping of annoyed hoofs on moist, soft earth sounded over the quiet rustle of leaves.

 

Brows arching, the prince straightened and picked up his pace a bit, searching around the threes and seeking out that splash of paleness. He found the odd construction near one of the many trees he rounded, its tail swishing and it’s head slung low. Colorless ears perked toward him as the horse-creature rolled almost dead eyes to look at him. 

 

A bit of a smile tugged at Ichigo’s features, before slowly falling into an equally slight frown. Like the forest they stood in, and unlike the last time he’d seen the animal, something dark swirled about the horse.

 

“No necromancer to accompany you?” He asked, voice quiet but not whispered. The animal snorted at him like his question was absurd and half sidestepped into a turn. Ichigo hoisted the bag from his shoulder and slung the strap over the makeshift saddle horn protruding from the creature’s back. “Still unwell, then.” He assumed, and began pulling himself onto the creature’s back.

 

The horse, of course, didn’t answer and turned to head deeper into the forest without prompt; a construct doing as it was intended. 

 

Ichigo fisted his hands in its mane, leaning close to its powerful neck. Below him, shadows swirled like black fog around the horse’s legs. The ride seemed a rougher one than Ichigo remembered, like the horse’s stride wasn’t so smooth and light. They made it to the massive fortress without incident nonetheless, as the necromancer had promised, and Ichigo slid from his mount, his eyes glued to the front entrance. Belatedly he pulled the heavy bag down and hefted its weight as he began to ascend the wide, stone staircase.

 

Like the last time, no one awaited him and he leaned his weight against the massive doors. They creaked open with the tortured sound of old hinges and heavy wood. Within, the main foyer was dark and shadowed, just as the prince remembered it. Just as they had the year before, and the many years even before that, candles of white wax lined the banister of the spiraling staircase that led up. The flames barely flickered, nearly still in the cool air. 

 

Shadows clung along the walls like crawling things and Ichigo shivered, thinking back to the times the necromancer had hinted about not getting lost in his home. Letting the heavy door fall closed behind him, he glanced around, expecting to find the powerful man’s silent servant standing behind him, or waiting patiently to lead him to the necromancer, but Yylfordt was no where to be seen.

 

Ichigo frowned, thinking the building seemed almost abandoned, but surely if that were the case, the horse wouldn’t have awaited him, let alone taken him to the fortress.

 

“Good necromancer?” He called, voice loud in the empty hall. Somewhere deeper in the fortress, old flooring creaked, then a door fell closed and the prince turned to face the sound, finding the necromancer striding toward him, a benign, almost fond smile on his pale features. Ichigo smiled too, a bit of his trepidation washing away.

 

“Good evening, little prince,” The colorless man chimed, inclining his head in a very slight bow. He walked down the hall alone and when he made it near enough to see him more clearly in the gloom, Ichigo tried not to show his concern. He looked to have aged ten years in the one that had passed. His long white hair hung dry and limp around drawn, worn features. He walked with a slightly bent posture, like straightening any further cause him pain. One hand stayed pressed against his chest, like he had trouble breathing, while his other trailed against the cold, rough stone of the wall at his side for support. “I see you made the journey well enough.” He remarked, his already distorted voice sounding thin.

 

“Uh-“ It took the prince a moment to push past his shock, “Yes, thank you. Your guide did well just as expected.”

 

“Very good,” The sickly necromancer chuckled, motioning for Ichigo to draw closer. “I would offer ta take those, but alas, I don’t think myself capable at the moment.” 

 

Ichigo’s hand dropped to the satchel of heavy books and he shook his head, “It’s no trouble at all,” He assured, stepping closer and offering a supporting arm to his elder, soon to be mentor, “Thank you for allowing me to borrow them. They’ve been most helpful.”

 

“Good, you’ve learned a thing or two from them, then?” The necromancer gratefully accepted the support, and looped his arm around the prince’s. His fingers were cold as ice against warm, lively skin and muscle.

 

“Yes, a few things,” Ichigo answered, trying not to be embarrassed by how little he understood in comparison to the man at his side. “Though laughable few, I suppose…”

 

Shiro laughed a short sound, motioning toward the stairs, “My study, if you would– Nonsense, dear prince, magic is a tricky thing. Learning anything at all on your own, with the aid of mere books, is a feat in itself. I’ve faith you’ll do great things with your power.”

 

Ichigo glanced toward his feet, hoping the man at his side was right.

 

The necromancer caught the look and a bit of a sly smile tugged at his lips. He made no effort to keep from using the young prince for support, his weakening form struggling with such a simple task as walking up the stairs, but he acted as if it were normal, as if he was unworried and unbothered by it. “You’ve plans for your growing talents already?”

 

The younger hesitated a moment, brows arching before he dared match that stunning, inverted gaze. A shiver worked down his spine and he did poorly in hiding it, catching the slight twitch of to the smirk that showed on ghostly lips. “I do…yes… My sisters, you see, they’ve been ill for as long as I can remember. I…” He hesitated again, pulling his gaze from the necromancer and glancing up the staircase, to the landing they neared, “I’ve wished all my life I could help them, make them healthy enough to do all the things they dream about.”

 

“Such a nobel cause.” The necromancer mused. He paused once at the top of the stairs, hand pressed to his damaged chest. The young prince hovered at his side, his thoughts transparent and his worry obvious to the all powerful man. “You would make a fine king, Ichigo.”

 

After a moment to let the necromancer catch his breath, they continued down a short corridor lined with ornately carved doors made from dark wood to match the dark stone of the walls. Candle sconces lit the way, mounted between each arching doorway.

 

Ichigo remembered this, and realized they were headed toward the very same room the necromancer had taken him to when he’d been but a boy; the study with it’s bloodwood desk and high-backed chair and shelves upon shelves of jars and chests and coffers and vials. He’d been so young then, so little, and everything had seemed so big and scary to him. Honestly, it still kind of did. The necromancer’s home wasn’t overly inviting, but Shiro himself made up for it.

 

“Where’s Yylfordt?” He asked, looking about as they stopped before the study.

 

Shirosaki pulled a key from around his neck and unlocked the door, “Would ya believe he looks almost as bad as me?” He asked with an airy chuckle, “I sent him away early, since his presence wont be required and he needs ta save his strength.”

 

“Oh…he’s unwell also?” Ichigo frowned, pausing to let the necromancer into the room ahead of him.

 

On the same level of the fortress, in the opposite direction as the study, Yylfordt sat half collapsed against the wall in Shirosaki’s bedchamber. Propped up in the far corner like a discarded plaything, he breathed in wheezing, hard-fought pants, his eyes glazed over with fatigue and effort. His strength had failed two nights prior and he’d sat there, alone, ever since while Shirosaki stretched and pulled and bent his very soul in ways a mortal’s soul couldn’t survive. His master, the undying necromancer, had fed from his life-force for thirty-odd years and now he stole the very last dregs of Yylfordt’s waning soul, leaving the once lively young man to waste away in his final hours.

 

The young heir’s question was ignored as Shiro pulled out the desk chair. He bid the lad to take a seat, then turned to one of the many shelves, a sickly smile lifting the corners of his lips, hidden as he turned away. “Shall we get started, then, dear prince?”

 

••••••

 

That next morning, with guests showing up from all across the land, Isshin stood amongst the closest thing to peers a king had and conversed in good nature. The great hall of the castle had been cleaned up and decorated for the celebration. A table laden with expensive desserts and finery took up one side; all the prince’s favorites could be found. Guests laughed and jested, enjoying the festive atmosphere and toasting to good fortune for the heir. But one thing was missing from the party; the heir himself.

 

After nearly a half hour of entertaining guests, the king’s gaze coasted about the room and still found no sign of his son. However, from across the room near the entry way and adorned in his finest dressage armor, his son’s personal guard matched his stare. The look in those sharp blue eyes said it all, but Isshin couldn’t help but frown at the very subtle shake of the guard’s head.

 

With the single motion of the king’s hand, Grimmjow was called to the man’s side. He hesitated for the slightest of seconds, before following the silent summons and crossing the room, skirting between people and keeping out of the way. For the entire walk across the great hall, he scrambled for what he should say. He’d gone over it in his head a million times the night prior. Ichigo had made it sound so simple, like it was nothing to deceive his father, the king.

 

As he stepped up before Isshin and bowed slightly, he only hoped his sleepless night and restless thoughts didn’t show upon his face.

 

A high standing land owner paused as he spoke with the king, seeing that Isshin’s attention had fallen elsewhere. The man laughed as Grimmjow approached, “Still asleep at this hour, is he? Well, a young man his age…” He trailed off with a shake of his head, implying that the prince surely had a late night.

 

The guard’s eyes narrowed slightly, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with his dislike, but Isshin arched a brow in question, waiting for his answer, so the guard jerked his attention away from the lower standing gentleman. “Not exactly, Sire.” He said lowly, stepping closer as he produced a carefully folded letter. “I found his room empty, undisturbed aside from this laid upon the pillow of his bed.”

 

Isshin frowned, taking the letter. Unfolding it, he found his son’s clean, legible penmanship in dark ink. Clearly there had been a level of impatience while writing it, because near the last quarter of the short note, the ink hadn’t been given the chance to dry before the vellum was folded and the ink was smeared here and there.

 

The king’s dark eyes quickly scanned the letter, his frown steadily growing from confused to irritated. “What is this?” He asked, motioning the paper and giving the guard a sharp look. He wasn’t naive or blind enough to not realize Grimmjow and his son were friends, on top of their working relationship.

 

Grimmjow shrugged a bit, matching the king’s furious gaze with the calmest one he could manage. He didn’t outright lie, but his words were as good as, and even though doing so was treason and could very well get him hanged, for Ichigo’s sake, he kept the prince’s secret. “It was addressed to you, Sire, I didn’t read it.” Then his chilling blue eyes slid to the side, landing on the nobleman Isshin had been speaking to only moments ago and the king seemed to remember he had an audience.

 

He tucked the letter away and sighed, “It seems Ichigo wont be joining us today,” he half announced to those around him. Then, not wanting to make a scene or make the young heir look bad on his birthday, of all days, he pushed a half smirk across his scruffy features and threw up his hands, “Boys. Guess that late night turned into a late morning also.”

 

The nobleman who’d originally made the joke laughed, a few others close enough to hear followed suit, and the festivities continued in the absent prince’s name.

 

Later that evening, after the party had come to an end and after the last of the guests had left, the servants were cleaning. Grimmjow stood in the arched doorway, watching with a stormy expression and awaiting the summons he’d surely be getting any minute now.

 

The king was unhappy, it was clear. At that moment, he spoke with other high standing members of the kingdom and the matters they discussed were surely business and not personal affairs, but the two bled together in a potent mix.

 

It wasn’t ten minutes later that deep, dark eyes flickered off to the side to find the shadowed archway Grimmjow had taken up post in. Those eyes were nearly a match to Ichigo’s, or rather the other way around; the prince’s were a near match to the king’s. In any case, Ichigo’s were always so much softer, yet Isshin showed in the younger Kurosaki royal. It was easier to see from afar, when the two weren’t side by side.

 

Without further prompt, Grimmjow uncrossed his arms and made his way across the room. He bowed a subtle but respectful motion as he pulled up in front of his king and waited for the interrogation to begin.

 

“Look at me, Grimmjow.” Isshin demanded, watching the proud young man straighten. Handsome features were set and infuriatingly unreadable. Isshin could see why his son liked this boy so, and the same was true in reverse. It was clear, even in that moment, that the guard cared for his son in return. That was one thing those frigid blue eyes couldn’t quite hide. “Tell me honestly, I know Ichigo speaks to you of everything. You knew nothing of this?”

 

Grimmjow glanced at the rolled parchment in the king’s hand, and shook his head. “As I said, sire, I didn’t read it. I don’t pretend to comprehend what goes through the prince’s head.”

 

Isshin grunted a short, agreeing laugh, but handed over the parchment.

 

Tentatively, Grimmjow took it and unrolled it. Creases marked where Ichigo had folded it, rather than rolled it as the king had after reading it. He held the king’s eyes as he ran a thumb across the wax stamp at the bottom, feeling the raised letters of the prince’s signature. Then he glanced down and scanned the short letter.

 

Just as Ichigo had told him the night before, the message was brief and intentionally vague. There were no details, just a son addressing his father. The guard could tell, as he quickly scanned through the letter, that Ichigo had assumed he would end up reading it, else he wouldn’t have had need to be so insistent that he knew what he was doing. It almost made it seem like he was getting himself into trouble, which didn’t settle well with either man.

 

Once done reading, he put an intentional frown on his face, rolled the letter back up, and handed it over to the king.

 

“This does not sound like the rebelling of a child to me.” Isshin stated, his voice even and serious as he took the letter back. He twisted it in his hands, gauging the reactions of his son’s guard and closest confidant.

 

Grimmjow shook his head a bit, “I would agree, Sire, though nothing the prince ever does is childish. Naive, perhaps, but rarely childish.”

 

Isshin nodded his agreement. His son had grown up fast, too fast, without a mother and two sickly, younger sisters to look after while his father was busy running a kingdom. Many would argue that Ichigo had it easy, the lavish life of a prince. To some degree, they were right, but the young prince’s only parent was as good as absent and that wasn’t fair to the boy. No, childishness wasn’t a part of Ichigo. The king’s sturdy shoulders seemed to sag and he sighed as if in defeat, weary of it all. “Then I guess our only option is to await his return, and trust his words.”

 

The guard wanted to be relieved that his interrogation was at an end, and that he hadn’t yet been hanged for lying to the king, but instead, he felt only a sinking in the pit of his stomach. The king didn’t know the whole story, and already he seemed to know something was wrong, that trouble was coming Ichigo’s way.

 

A week, he’d told the prince a week. If he wasn’t back before than, he would ride out and slay the necromancer. But a week was a long time for a prince to be without his guard, more than long enough for something to go horribly wrong.

 

A few days went by, and no word was received; no missive, no runner nor even hawk. Not even a magical message or a ghoul. Nothing at all. 

 

Grimmjow paced holes in the floor of his room and up and down the hallway. Without the prince in attendance, there was little to keep him busy. Occasionally Isshin would call for him and he would stand before the king straight-faced and straight-backed and this time it wouldn’t be a lie when he told the man he’d heard nothing. He would have preferred he could lie, though, because at least than he’d know how the young prince faired.

 

Another day and the king finally sent riders out in search of his missing son. He trusted the boy, he really did, but a father always knows when something isn’t right and Isshin knew there was something up. He also knew that his son’s guard knew more than he let on, or at least had a good idea about what Ichigo was up to. But he couldn’t just call the young man out on it, not in front of everyone. Grimmjow hadn’t earned punishing, he simply did as his prince bid. If anyone had a lashing coming, it was Ichigo. But at this point, Isshin only hoped his son would find his way home safe from harm.

 

The riders came back empty handed.

 

Six days after the prince had set out to train with the necromancer, Grimmjow had decided he’d waited long enough. He requested audience with the worried king. As soon as he said it concerned the prince, Isshin dropped his duties and stepped down from his throne to speak with the guard. Lined up before him, a troop of seasoned men from the king’s army stood at the ready, prepared to return to their search for the missing heir.

 

Grimmjow eyed the king as he entered the throne room, a stern expression on his younger features. Isshin looked right back at him, seeing the fire there, seeing what was to come before it happened. Then the guard stepped forward and something sank in the king’s stomach.

 

“I know where he’s gone,” Grimmjow announced, his back straight and his features set. He was younger than most of those gathered, with less experience and less hard training. But in terms of rank, he was every bit their equal and he looked the part, “and I’ll bring him back.”

 

Isshin started to protest, “Grimmjow, you’ve no reason to feel-“

 

But the guard would have none of it. He waved the king’s words off, cutting him short in a way that under normal circumstances, would have never been stood for, “Responsible or not, he was under my protection and I will bring him back.” He took another resolute step towards the king, until he stood before the rest of the assembled men, capable one and all, and loyal to the king, “You can keep your reward, sire, I want none of it.”

 

“…Grimmjow-“

 

“I will find Ichigo.”

 

“Grimmjow…” But the king paused, the troubled frown upon his features lessening a touch. The silence stretched, nothing to break it being said, as the two studied one another. Then finally Isshin nodded, “I can’t promise you what you want, Grimmjow, but if you bring my son home safely, you have my blessing to try.”

 

The only tell the guard gave of his surprise was a very slight raise to his sever blue brows. Then it was gone and Grimmjow nodded and bowed. Turning on his heel, he headed for the exit without further word, but was halted by the king.

 

“Grimmjow.” His voice was stern this time, but underlying desperation and sorrow was there to be heard for whoever might listen, “Whatever you need, it’s at your disposal.”

 

“Thank you, sire, I only require his horse.” Then the guard left, determined to find the prince and kill the necromancer.

 

•••••

 

The necromancer’s pale fingers were both startling frigid, yet sickly warm and Ichigo -still struggling against what was happening to him and still new to the horrid man’s control- had the presence of mind to realize this where the unwanted touch settled against the curve of his neck. 

 

Everything had gone so wrong so quickly. He hadn’t even realized what was happening. One minute he’d been watching the sickly, weakened man gather supplies and spread them out upon the desktop before him, the next thing Ichigo knew, he could feel the necromancer’s whispered chant wrap round him like cold iron. The words had invaded him, choked him and poured down his throat to fill his lungs. Cold fingers squeezed tight around his heart until each beat ached and pinpricks of ice burned in his veins. He hadn’t known what was going on…. There had been no warning, nothing to give the necromancer’s plans away, even as he stood there, bent like an old man, and whispered pretty words of an unknown language in Ichigo’s ear.

 

The prince had sat there in horror, frozen, unable to move, to retaliate. Unable to even voice his fear and his concerns and his protests. So fast, it had been so fast. Just like that, the necromancer had taken everything.

 

Ichigo had watched through terror widened eyes as the necromancer had collapsed to his knees, head bowed and shoulders hunched. He curled around the gaping wound in his chest as if in immense pain, but an over wide grin had slashed across his pale features, twisting a previously benign expression into something horrible and wicked. The man’s entire body had convulsed where he’d huddled, then previously labored movements had smoothed out, become less painful. His breathing had evened out again. His back straightened and the black that had wound tight around his chest and throat had receded and when the necromancer had climbed to his feet, he looked like a new man.

 

He looked like the prince.

 

Shirosaki leaned in close, a twisted grin on features that now looked like a mockery of the prince’s own. He held up one hand and between his thumb and forefinger he held a pale, rounded stone. It was nearly a match to the color of the necromancer’s skin but it shone like his black nails, like diamond. “D’ya know what this is, little prince?” He asked, a sickly sweet tone to his distorted voice, like he spoke to a child.

 

Ichigo’s jaw clenched as he leaned away from that toxic touch as best he could. He had a startling lack of control to his movements; the powerful magic coiling around him, he knew, but it was nothing in comparison to what he was in for. Eyes darting toward the mantle, the prince’s gaze widened slightly as he looked at all the small, smooth stones that glittered in the flickering firelight.

 

“That’s right,” Shiro whispered, drawing yet nearer, until his chin hovered just over the younger’s shoulder and they were cheek to cheek. His lips were soft against the curve of the prince’s ear as he continued, the unassuming little stone still held in his fingers before the lad’s features. “it’s a glimpse of your very soul, Ichigo, it’s all I need ta reach inside and take what I needed.” He stepped back again, though didn’t go far, and closed his hand around the stone. When he opened his fist, it was gone. Then he reached to the front of his shadowy, black robe and yanked the front wide open. The dark, sickly marks that had cut deep through his skin were gone. The old wound that had threatened to bore through him, claim a heart long rotted black, and kill him, was gone. Smooth, pale skin was revealed, supple and young and lively again. “You’ve done me a great service, _prince_.” His voice was half sing-song, mocking, as he dipped into a bow. “Poor Yylfordt very nearly didn’t last long enough. The state he left me in while I awaited your arrival was truly deplorable.”

 

Horrified and shocked, Ichigo shook his head in denial as he stared up at the man. “You can’t do this! You’ll never get away with it,” He shot to his feet, finding strength to fight against the hold on him.

 

The necromancer arched a pale brow and eyed the prince without worry. “Sit back down.” He demanded, and power laced his voice. 

 

Ichigo could feel it in his very bones and was horrified to find himself complying. Without his want, he returned to his seat. Confusion and revolution rippled through him as dread began to show on his features.

 

“Dear little prince,” Shirosaki shook his head, like what he was doing was no more than chastising a child, “Dear _naive_ , little prince. Ya can’t hope ta fight against me.” He leaned in close again and his words were a sharp hiss against the prince’s ear, “I am undying. I am all powerful. I’ve lived for centuries. If I say it, it becomes truth. You belong ta me, now.” Then he stepped back and turned away, as if to leave Ichigo to himself and his growing misery. He crossed the room and only once more directed his attention to the prince when he stood before the flames of his glowing hearth. With a fondness that resembled what he’d shown the prince when Ichigo had been just a child, he placed his pretty, white stone on the mantle amongst all the others. There was something very final, very damning in the simple action, like everything Ichigo was and everything he had ever been was out of reach, set high above on a shelf. “I’ve grown old, Ichigo, I’ve grown inta all the things yer father tried ta tell ya I was. I will feed from your life, your soul, until it’s spent. Then I’ll cast ya aside and find another handsome young man, as I have done since before even the king can remember.”

 

Ichigo fought back panic, fought back despair that threatened to choke him. “Y-you wont get away with this…” He forced out in a harsh whisper, “He’ll come for me and he’ll kill you. He promised.”

 

The necromancer laughed as he left the room.

 

••••••

 

Horse hooves stamped in anticipation as the big creature sidestepped an antsy motion under the saddle cinched tight around its middle. It’s tail swished out behind it and it tugged at the reigns in the stableboy’s hand, ready and impatient to be on its way. No doubt it fed from its handler’s own mood.

 

Grimmjow’s features were set in a determined, grim scowl as he swung up into the saddle. The beast shifted below him, feeling the difference in his weight verses that of its usual rider. Horses were smarter than given credit for. The prince’s warhorse knew they were finally going to war.

 

The master of the king’s stable stood nearby, watching with crossed arms, “I’d advice you take a more seasoned mount, if you truly think you’re in for a fight.”

 

Grimmjow merely shook his head as he checked his sword and took the reigns from the stableboy. “This one is loyal to the prince.” Is all he said, before his gaze drifted passed the older man and to where the king stood just outside the wide, arching doorway. “It also knows its way back home, and wont require much prompt to come back here.”

 

Without ceremony, Grimmjow guided the horse from the stable, then set his heels to the animal’s flanks. The stallion tossed its mane and set off in a swift canter, straight through the tree line and into the forbidden shadows of the forest.

 

The king watched him go, until the guard and horse had disappeared from sight. “I should have known…” He told himself, as he had over and over for the past few hours since his son’s guard had confessed, “It was so long ago… I thought him safe, but I should have known that monster was after my boy.”

 

Grimmjow rode through the rest of the morning, watching the sun raise along the horizon. The shadows around him seemed to never lessen, as if night and the darkness that came with it clung to the branches above him permanently.

 

When the imposing, stone fortress loomed before him, he finally slowed his horse. Despite having never been there before, he knew this was the place. Everyone had heard the tails; a shadowed castle to rival a king’s own with rolling yards of surprisingly lively gardens, hidden deep in the forbidden forest. It was said that the plants and flowers the necromancer tended to were used to aid his deadly magic. Even the twisted, gnarled trees that lined the path. Staring at it all in person, Grimmjow believed it.

 

The animal he rode seemed reluctant to enter the grounds, like it sensed what awaited beyond the gates. Dismounting, he walked the animal closer to the castle. There were no guards at the open gate, no sentries posted outside. Grimmjow walked right up to the looming fortress of dark stone, leaving the horse not but a few paces from the wide entrance. He hesitated at the short set of stairs that led up to the entrance, looking up at the face of the fortress with hand on the hilt of his sword, but nothing happened. No one met him, no yelling or threats. Nothing at all.

 

The guard walked right in, like the building was abandoned, to find an entry hall filled with cold stone, dark shadows, and a spiraling staircase. Candles lined the way, but no smoke hung in the air, no smell of burnt wick or hot wax.

 

Very carefully pushing the large door closed behind him, Grimmjow eyed the top of the stairs as he went the opposite direction, skirting along the edge of the large room. He checked every doorway he came to. Some were locked, others were empty, not a trace of the prince nor hint of the necromancer himself. But Grimmjow knew he was in the right place. The dark creature’s presence lingered. His magic left behind a bitter flavor to the stale air.

 

To his surprise, after no more than twenty minutes, he found who he was looking for in a large room at the far end of a short corridor upon the first floor. Ichigo sat in a high-backed, wooden chair that had been pulled out from a long table. His back was to the door but that bright orange hair and lean stature was unmistakable to the guard, even without the rich clothing and dignified stance.

 

“Prince-!” Grimmjow hissed between his teeth, checking the corridor around him once more before ducking into the room with all haste. He skittered through the dark room, only a small, dwindling fire in a grand fireplace at the far end of the large room to light his way. He rounded the chair, half diving in front of the prince, only to look up at startling blank features. There was life to the young heir, his breathing was even and normal and when Grimmjow grabbed hold of his shoulders, warmth seeped through the thin cloth of the shirt he wore. But Ichigo acted as if he didn’t even realize Grimmjow knelt before him, staring blankly across the room at nothing.

 

“Ichigo,” Grimmjow tried again, his voice a quiet growl as he shook the young the man. A deep frown dominated his handsome features, confusion and worry aplenty. “Ichigo, it’s me, I’ve come to get you out of here.”

 

Finally, dull brown eyes lowered slightly and found Grimmjow’s studying glance. It took a long moment, but the very slightest hint of widening to the prince’s eyes was enough to prove that Ichigo was still himself. Yet he didn’t move, sitting perfectly still in the chair.

 

“Come.” Grimmjow instructed, jerking to his full height again and tugging Ichigo by the shoulders to follow. 

 

The prince swallowed, his jaw working, but no sound came out. He stared at Grimmjow with eyes that were just barely wider than normal, but the guard saw horror there. Then an echo of laughter interrupted the quiet and Grimmjow’s hand shot down to the hilt of his sword.

 

“Sit down, little prince.” The necromancer’s lilting, distorted voice proceeded him. The soles of his shin length leather boots made not a sound on the smooth stone flooring but he was a looming shadow in the doorway as he approached.

 

A look of dread terror flashed through brown eyes, then Ichigo took half a step back, pulling away from his loyal guard, and lowered himself back into the chair he’d occupied, and stared straight ahead, no longer meeting Grimmjow’s gaze.

 

Grimmjow glanced at him, than back toward the necromancer, rage and aggression twisting his features, but he faltered, all that hate crashing down, as the undying creature strode into the feeble light of the dying fire. Grimmjow found himself faced with familiar, pretty features; a mirror image of the prince he was sworn to protect. A sharp grin twisted normally kind lips, and brown eyes were too cold, too gold. The hair that framed the things features was white, colorless and long.

 

“My my, little prince,” The necromancer called, not looking at his victim, but at the intruder instead. He stepped up to Ichigo’s side and almost fondly threaded elegant fingers through orange hair. Oh so tenderly, he tipped the prince’s head to the side and stooped to bring his features right along the young man’s, “a most loyal guard you had…”

 

Ichigo said nothing, head tilted and the warmth of the necromancer against his neck, but there was a wet shine to his eyes.

 

Fury lit Grimmjow’s spine. His sword hissed from its scabbard with anger to match its wielder’s. He made it a single step as the horrid creature straightened and watched pale features turn serious. A single, careless flick of the necromancer’s wrist, like swatting at a fly, was Shirosaki’s response. Something fizzled and hissed in the air near his hand, but it was the opposite of a spark; darker than even the shadows of his abode, it stole light from the air.

 

Before Grimmjow knew it, he was on the floor, slumped against the wall beside the fireplace. The echoing concussion of his armor on stone rang in his skull and reverberated through his chest. His sword was a hollow clatter of useless steel as it shivered on the floor halfway between him and the necromancer’s boots.

 

Grimmjow shook his head, trying to clear it. His blue eyes found Ichigo’s brown and he watched a single, terrified tear streak young features. Then the necromancer was upon him, bent like a wretched beast with one, strong hand fisted in his hair. Achingly familiar features were pressed close, until he could feel warm breath upon his skin, but the grin that twisted those features was nothing like Ichigo’s, and the teeth it bared may as well have belonged to a monster.

 

The crack of his skull against the wall behind him was the last thing Grimmjow was aware of for hours to come.

 

When he woke up, it was with a low, agonized groan and dizziness that made the dank room spin. The air smelled of wet dirt and stale moisture. A chill seeped along the bare, stone floor and bars reflected the glint of dancing torchlight. 

 

As he tried to find his bearings, head bowed and in his hand, Grimmjow rolled into a sitting position. He looked outward through a curtain of his blue bangs, and froze when his sight settled upon bare, pale feet. Eyes widening, his gaze traveled upward slowly, almost hesitating to confirm who stood before him so calmly.

 

“Our dear little prince has told me much about ya, Grimmjow.” The distorted voice was quiet in the dungeon-like room, holding none of the cruelty it had earlier, but certainly not showing the charm that had lured Ichigo in all those years ago. “Childhood friends,” he continued, lifting his arms to throw back the thick mantle that had hung about his shoulders, “grown inta something… _more_. But he doesn’t yet realize it, does he?”

 

Half dressed, lean muscle flexed and tensed smoothly below flawless skin as the necromancer stepped away from his dropped covering; long legs, cut hips, firm abdomen, elegant throat. His hair was longer than the prince’s, much longer, and wild where it hung about his shoulders. Gold eyes glittered in the light of the fire, the dancing flames highlighting the curve of his neck and the handsomeness of his borrowed features. A smirk quirked one corner of tempting lips in a mischievous expression. 

 

It was a twist of cruel irony that now, after all this time, Grimmjow was finally gifted with the sight of the body he’d longed for, _ached_ to see, to touch, taste, for years as he’d followed the prince. He frowned, dragging his attention away to sneer at the wall past the man’s shoulder, his raised hand falling.

 

Shirosaki laughed. “He could, Grimmjow. He could know. I would let ya show him in all the ways ya desire, and under my control, he would do _anything_ ya asked.”

 

The guard’s sharp gaze snapped back to the necromancer’s, fire lighting blue eyes. He curled his lip and bit out, “Hold your tongue, monster. When I get out of here, you will die by my hand.”

 

Again, Shirosaki laughed and the flighty sound was like the chaotic beat of a crazed bird’s wings. He stepped closer, until he was close enough to touch, no fear in the undying man, not of the guard that threatened him. Not of the sword he’d laid nearby, within reach. Not of the hate and anger he found in bright blue eyes. “You can’t fight me.” He all but whispered, his voice sweet like honey.

 

Grimmjow growled in retaliation, “I sure as hell can try.”

 

The necromancer smiled and nodded, “You can try.” and it was sickening how much like granting permission it sounded. Then, after he stood there and studied the guard a moment longer, he turned on his heel, “Let me know when you’re ready ta see your dear little prince.”

 

After the necromancer was gone and Grimmjow had sat and glared after him for a few minutes, it dawned on him that the door to the cell he’d been thrown in had never been shut, and that his sword had never been taken from him. In fact, the vile necromancer must have brought it to him. It sat barely an arm’s length away, like a challenge in the dank room. He glanced towards the dark, yawning doorway the pale man had disappeared through before reaching for it and jerking to his feet.

 

Careful and quiet, he strode towards the open doorway the man had disappeared through, sword held out at the ready. But when he peered around the frame, he found nothing but open hallway. No one -necromancer or other- stood on guard. A disgruntled frown furrowed the guard’s brow as his blue eyes swept the shadows between the candle holders mounted on the walls. Doorways yawned back at him, like lifeless eyes that seemed to track his movements as he tentatively stepped through and into the corridor.

 

He was positive his cell had been left open on purpose; the necromancer didn’t seem one to overlook such things. It was as thought the undying man was toying with him, playing some perverse game he’d failed to detail the rules of. 

 

After another minute of creeping down the corridor, in which he met no resistance, Grimmjow slid his sword back into the scabbard at his side. If the creature wanted him dead, he was certain he’d already be dead, still lying on the cold hard ground before a mighty fireplace with the sound of steel ringing in his ears. But he wasn’t, and the necromancer had left him free to roam.

 

Grimmjow quietly, but surely, made his way to the very end of the corridor he found himself in. Having not been aware of his trip to the dungeon he’d awoken in, he had only the slightest idea of where at he was in the great mansion, but the first set of stairs he came across, he ascended. He almost expected to find the necromancer waiting for him at the next landing, but when he made it up the spiraling staircase, he found himself alone still.

 

Almost an hour went by as he navigated the maze of windowless hallways, hardly enough light in many of them to even see what stood before him had there been something waiting for him in the dark. Finally he came upon the massive, double doors he’d originally entered through, and their rounded, high ceilinged entry hall. The doors, like they had been before, were unguarded.

 

Pausing in the shadowed archway of the corridor he’d been traveling, Grimmjow glanced around the rotunda, before his eyes strayed toward the doors and the exit. But instead of heading for them, he went towards the side and found the room with its long table and massive hearth.

 

The fire had nearly died, burned low to embers that just barely glowed in the gloom. The prince was gone.

 

Snarling in the still, dead air, Grimmjow turned on his heel and stormed back into the rounded space where all the hallways seemed to converge. There he paused and weighed his options, glancing about him at all the doorways and shadowed corridors, and finally the grand staircase that led upward.

 

He took the stairs two and three at a time, until he was standing upon the landing, where a railed balcony of sorts overlooked the rotunda and it’s massive doors below. Clear to his left, at the very end, light spilled under one of the doors. He crept to it, as quietly as he could, and paused outside to listen for the sound of an occupied room. Surely the necromancer awaited within.

 

But all he heard was silence, and so, with one hand on the hilt of his sword, he carefully pushed the door open. It slowly swung inward on silent hinges to reveal a room filled with shelves. A desk dominated one wall and like everything else he’d seen thus far, it was large and sturdy and carefully decorated. A flickering lamp sat atop it, the wick burned low but evenly and the reservoir for oil was still full. Next to it, a silver tray gleamed, all manner of medical tools had been laid out on its shining surface. Sorcery and magic was thick in the air, replacing the smoke that should have been let off by the lamp.

 

In the far corner, between the desk and the rows of shelves, something sat wrapped in dark cloth and propped against the wall. It was man sized, but no movement or sound came from it.

 

Hardening his features, Grimmjow took a steadying breath and crossed the distance between the doorway and the bundled object. He knelt at its side, glancing over his shoulder back toward the door, and oh so carefully found the folded edge of cloth near where -if it was a person- the head should have been. He pulled it back until he found long, blond hair and couldn’t help the relief that flooded him. Then he yanked the cloth down further, hurriedly. It was indeed a man, but he looked to be long dead, staring sightlessly over Grimmjow’s shoulder, like he’d watched his tormentor wrap him up and leave. 

 

Grimmjow draped the heavy fabric back in place and stood. Ichigo wasn’t here, and he had a lot of rooms to search.

 

••••••

 

Ichigo strained and grit his teeth. For all his struggling, all he did was swipe a hand through the air. There was enough power behind it that the heavy chest of drawers beside the necromancer skidded across the floor and toppled.

 

The pale creature side stepped it as he entered the room, watching its path. Then he turned to Ichigo with arched brows and an impressed look, a grin on his features. “I see you were being truthful!” He exclaimed, almost proudly, almost excitedly. “Fine then, lets see what you can do, little prince, free of my influence.”

 

With the words, Ichigo felt as if invisible chains unwound from his body. Their heavy weight rattled in his mind as they loosened, then they were gone altogether and he was free again. With regained control, he snarled his hatred and put everything he had into a magical assault.

 

The necromancer, so unconcerned, didn’t even move from the path of the wave of sorcery. It hit with a wildness to it, a complete lack of control, but there was strength behind it. It was enough to force him a half step back through the doorway and grinned all the wider -a truly manic expression- as he pulled a single hand up, flicking his fingers out toward the boy.

 

The simple motion had immense power behind it; years and years of training, of practice and mastery. It was a watered down version of how the necromancer had dispelled of Grimmjow, and like it had with the guard, it sent Ichigo sprawling. His landing was padded by the plush mattress behind him, the silken sheets cool to the touch. 

 

As he began trying to right himself, Shiro stepped back through the doorway, closing the portal behind him this time. His smirk was maddening. It was a challenge, it was dark and promising and yet leering and lascivious all in one. 

 

Ichigo cringed at the sight of it and how twisted it made the man’s borrowed features look. 

 

The necromancer asked as he drew yet nearer, “Now, are you going to play nice, Ichigo?”

 

The prince’s attention was drawn to the rich mantle the creature wore, and the way it fell open and did little at hiding the half state of his dress. And then it dawned on him which room the necromancer had brought him to, and where the attack had landed him. Fear coiled tight in his stomach, nausea and even disgust close by.

 

He scrambled off the bed, backing away from the necromancer and along the wall, never taking his eyes off the man. Shiro smiled that expression he’d always taken as kindly wisdom before. It felt infinitely less friendly. Ichigo was allowed to skirt the wall, backing away and towards the door, and it made the prince realize there was no escape. The creature before him was old, powerful. He was a monster, like the things everyone thought lurked the forest. He was hunting, and Ichigo was the prey, already caught in the man’s snare and left to run scared circles until he wore himself out.

 

Not looking where he was going, Ichigo ran into the chest of drawers he’d thrown and nearly tripped. The few things that had once sat upon its top were scattered around him. Something shined in the low lighting; a decorated letter opener with a blade of expensive silver and a carved, ivory handle.

 

Ichigo stumbled as he regained his balance and righted himself, snagging the letter opener in the process. He turned for the door, quick like he was trying to make a run for it. It left his back open to the necromancer and he heard the amused lilt of laughter behind him. As expected, the door didn’t budge when he tried to push it open, but the letter opener was clenched in a white-knuckled grip and the prince clenched his jaw to match, waiting for that cool touch.

 

He didn’t wait long, as he jerked on the door. Within moments, the necromancer was upon him. Long fingers found his upper arm, jerking him around. There was amusement in that pale face, a crazed spark to inverted eyes. Then there was rounded surprise, as Ichigo followed the spinning motion of the creature pulling him around, and slammed the letter opener home. It punched below the necromancer’s outstretched arm, slid between ribs and sliced a tear in tender muscle. It ground through cartilage with a sick, slurping pop and still Ichigo pushed. Then it sank into something much softer with hardly a sound at all, a breath of air as it found the necromancer’s lung, and Ichigo watched features that mirrored his own turn from surprise to shock. 

 

The creature released his prize and jerked back, stumbling slightly as his bloodless lips curled and his hands shot to his side. He glared at Ichigo, stunned. Vivid, oxygen-rich blood seeped and bubbled from the wound, gliding in thick streaks down the curve of his ribs. He dragged in a strained breath and when it pushed out in a short, harsh gasp there was blood in that too.

 

For a moment, Ichigo thought he’d won his freedom, thought the nightmare was over. But only for a moment.

 

Then the necromancer sneered. His discolored tongue curled out from behind his red stained teeth and cleared the blood from the corner of his lips and his fingers curled round the ivory handle. He yanked the silver blade free with a slick, spongey sound and sent it spinning away from his person so fast it thunked into the wall and stuck fast, straight through the mortar holding the stone.

 

Ichigo watched in frozen terror.

 

The necromancer panted, chest heaving to make up for the punctured lung. Rage twisted his features. In the span of moments, in the three short strides he took to reach the prince, the wound was already knitting closed. By the time he grabbed hold of Ichigo again, and the young man found it in himself to begin struggling again, the worst of the damage was gone. In mere moments, a half dozen heartbeats’ time, the creature’s lung was healthy again, muscle folded back into place, cartilage reshaped. Not even a scar was left on the surface of pale, smooth skin.

 

His power was great indeed.

 

••••••

 

After hours of searching and yet still coming up empty handed, Grimmjow realized he’d never be able to go through all the rooms in the necromancer’s mansion like this. The only way he’d find Ichigo was if the creature wanted him to. So he eventually dragged himself back down the spiral staircase, to the first floor again. 

 

Finding the room with the long table and the great hearth, Grimmjow paced clear to the end and pulled out the chair at the head of the table, his back to the dead embers of the fireplace. Kicking the chair clear of the table, where he would have plenty of space to react, he dropped down into it, pulling his sword around to settle in his lap, and waited.

 

The creature didn’t keep him waiting long and he suspected Shirosaki probably knew where he was at most times while he roamed the castle.

 

When the necromancer stepped through the door, he hardly even acknowledged Grimmjow. He moved to take his own place, seated comfortably at the table on the opposite side. He’d redressed, and once more wore his robes and high-necked, boned corset. The silver buckles that lined the front caught the flicker of flames and not a moment later, the slight tilting of Shiro’s head all there was to show he concentrated, the fire came back to life in the massive fireplace along the wall.

 

The creature sighed, a pleased smile slanting his lips, like he’d missed the power coursing through his veins. “The prince provides an excellent source of strength.” He admitted conversationally. “Perhaps, in the future, I’ll start teachin’ all my new conquests a bit of magic before I take them for my own.”

 

Grimmjow grit his teeth, but remained quiet, knowing the creature baited him on purpose.

 

The necromancer looked almost disappointed. “Nothin’ ta say, guard? You’re much quieter than earlier. Perhaps lettin’ ya roam my home was a little more traumatic than I’d realized.”

 

“I’m not traumatized.” Grimmjow assured, a growling tone to his voice.

 

“No? Well that’s a relief.” The necromancer waved one hand dismissively and jumped straight to the root of Grimmjow’s presence, “I’ve already made it clear, I should think; ya wont be taking him from me. You’re welcome to stay, most loyal guard, it’s not often I have company. Or you’re free to leave, but know this; if you step from this mansion, you wont find your way back.”

 

There were two ways to take what the pale creature said, and Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed on the man, “Is that a threat?” He asked, his voice dropping to a quiet, grave sound.

 

A wicked little smirk tugged at Shirosaki’s pale lips, “Threat, and fair warning.” Without warning, the necromancer stood gracefully and confidently turned his back as he made to leave again, sweeping through the room in a hush of shadows and the whisper of heavy, black robes. “You think me a monster, and you may be right.” There was amusement in his voice still, “But I’m also a gentlemen. Or used to be, anyway. There’s been a bed dragged into the cell at the end of the hall. You’re welcome to make yourself comfortable in there. Lock me out if you wish, guardsman, it will do you no good, but you’ve my word that until I decide what to do with you, you’re safe enough here.”

 

Grimmjow frowned and watched him leave, just as suddenly as he’d come.

 

Before the door swung shut behind him, Shirosaki called back, without raising his voice, “My offer still stands; find me when you wish for a night with your little prince.”

 

The guard grit his teeth in frustration, at a loss for what games the horrid creature was playing. The necromancer was old, and surely grew bored of the same things year after year, decade after decade. He toyed with Grimmjow, that much the guard knew. Ichigo had given the necromancer strength and power, Grimmjow gave him entertainment. They were as playthings, and treated as such.

 

As Grimmjow finally pushed from his seat, the frown permanent upon his brow, he began to realize that to beat Shirosaki, he would have to first join the game. Skirting the sidelines and watching would get him nowhere. It would be messy, he was sure, and dangerous beyond imagine, but what he had to lose was more than worth it. He’d given the king his word. He’d given Ichigo his word.

 

That very next day, after spending the night in an unlocked cell -where he’d found a straw mat and clean sheets, just as the necromancer had said- he began stalking the hallways all over again, but this time, he wasn’t searching for his prize. 

 

Grimmjow spent hours, walking the length of hallways, counting his steps and peering into rooms. Most doors were left unlocked to him, and within, the contents varied greatly. Some of the rooms looked as if they’d been left untouched for decades, some looked to be used regularly. 

 

The guard began to form a pattern in his mind, as he mapped out the interior of the great mansion and memorized relative locations. He worked out a general layout in his head, and mentally marked where he believed the dangerous necromancer haunted the most, and where he seemed to avoid.

 

That evening, when he made his way back around and returned to the cell he’d been given to stay the nights in, he found a spread of meat, cheese and bread fit for a king. Unwatered, red wine sat in a small carafe nearby.

 

The entire set up made him feel like he was but a pet, and only enforced the idea that the necromancer merely toyed with him. Eventually, the creature would get bored of him, the way all spoiled children bored of their playthings. He needed to figure out how to free Ichigo before then.

 

Seeing little other chance of finding where the creature had locked the prince up at, Grimmjow left the hold the next morning and once again sought out the necromancer. As seemed to be a running theme, he couldn’t actually find the creature on his own, but after only minutes of seating himself at that long table by a cold hearth, the necromancer came to him. This time, the young prince followed at the creature’s heel.

 

When Ichigo stepped through the doorway, Grimmjow shot to his feet, his attention lingering on the prince. There was a dullness to brown eyes and a bone-deep weariness to his features, like the necromancer stole the life from him. Which was exactly what was happening.

 

After a moment of studying the prince, Grimmjow’s painfully blue eyes costed back to the elder, cold and hard. Shirosaki simply looked back at him with that hint of madness and amusement.

 

“Have you decided to accept my generous offer, then?”

 

Grimmjow’s hesitation was genuine, as he let his attention stray back to the young prince, where Ichigo hovered a step behind and at the necromancer’s side, like a servant rather than royalty. “…is this truly Ichigo?” There was no life in the young man, no fire or cunning or hotheaded stubbornness.

 

Shirosaki smiled almost patiently, but the softness didn’t reach his cold, dark eyes. He nodded once, “Of course. He’ll liven up again once he’s under your control, in private.”

 

The guard nodded slightly, slowly, before dragging his attention back to the man he haggled with, like Ichigo was something to be bargained for, a good to purchase. He clenched his jaw, and nodded again, this time more firmly. He was determined in this, even if it meant actually going through with the act of intimacy against the prince’s will. If it came to that, he could face the noose without regret, once he saved the prince and brought him home.

 

“Excellent.” The necromancer lifted one hand and Ichigo stepped up to his side, allowing the pale copy to wrap that arm fondly around his shoulders. Long, pale fingers flattened against the opposite side of the princes features, brushing down his cheek and jaw like the necromancer pet an animal that had curled in his lap. “I have need of him today, but you’ll be free to use him through the night, afterwards. I’ll send word when and where to find him.”

 

Grimmjow had to refrain from openly showing his revulsion at the nercomancer’s words and the way he touched the prince. He swallowed the bile that wanted to burn at his throat, jaw tight, and once more nodded, his eyes coasting to lock with Ichigo’s. Brown met cool blue, and for a moment, Grimmjow thought maybe he saw the tiniest spark of recognition, but it was short lived and snuffed out.

 

The necromancer laughed, threading his fingers through orange hair, and turned Ichigo toward the exit again.

 

The guard wasn’t slow to follow after them. He paused in the doorway, watching as the necromancer seemed to float up the staircase, Ichigo ever at his side. There was a wicked grin on the creature’s mockingly handsome features.

 

As he’d been promised, when the time came, word was sent and magic was involved. The necromancer was no where in sight and Grimmjow was alone, yet when he rolled over restlessly upon the bed he’d been given, impatiently awaiting his meeting with the prince, he found a folded letter where none had been only moments ago. The instructions written within were precise and clear, but brief, and Grimmjow followed them.

 

He slipped into a room with a door made of dark, heavy wood, and carefully closed it behind himself. The room may have very well been the necromancer’s own, for all Grimmjow knew. It was richly decorated, filled with finery and decor luxurious in its lack of necessity. The bed frame was of carved, twisted wood, dark like the door. A chest of drawers matching it sat in one corner, against the wall. A silver candelabra hung from the ceiling, low over his head. The candles flickered and let off light, but no heat and their wax was still solid.

 

Ichigo was already sitting there, waiting for him with a worn out look on his face, like he was too tired and too scared to show it. His feet were flat on the floor and his back was straight and stiff, uncomfortably so. A long, luxurious robe had been pulled over his shoulders but the way the front fell and opened across his chest, it was clear he wore nothing underneath.

 

Grimmjow grit his teeth and crossed the space between himself and the bed, but when he went to reach out to the young prince, he hesitated. A deep furrow cut across his features as he looked down into the dark, heavy brown eyes just barely aimed up at him. There was a dullness there, a chill that shouldn’t exist, but up close, below the controlling magic, the prince could still be found; all his fears, his anger and fire.

 

“Ichigo?” Grimmjow asked, his rumbling voice low, “He…he told you, right? You’re to listen to me and what I say.”

 

Ichigo swallowed and nearly looked betrayed as he nodded his confirmation. Still he didn’t move, but his chest rose and fell in a too steady, too controlled rhythm below the robes he wore. As had been promised, there was more life to him now than had been back in the great hall.

 

“Good.” The guard finally knelt and reached out, but rather than laying a hand on the prince, he tugged the front of the rich, dark robes closed and covered the bare skin that wasn’t his to enjoy, despite what the necromancer had promised he could have. “Than…know that I’m not here for what he thinks I am. You’re free to speak and act as you wish, under your own will.”

 

Brown eyes widened and it was like something snapped free, “Oh Grimmjow–“ and the prince practically launched himself against his guard, suddenly finding himself able to move and speak without hinderance. He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around the bigger man’s middle and bury his face against Grimmjow’s chest. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… You were right, I-“

 

Grimmjow shook his head, unable to tell the prince his apologies were unnecessary, and slowly returned the unexpected embrace. “I’m going to get you out of here, Ichigo.”

 

Pressed against the larger man, his face buried in the crook of Grimmjow’s neck, Ichigo cringed against him, almost seemed to shrink, like he knew Grimmjow was serious, but couldn’t bring himself to actually believe it. “How?” He finally whispered, forcing the word free of a dry, constricted throat, “How? We can’t- Even if we can slip past him, he’ll just call me back… Grimmjow, I can’t- I can’t control it. I try so hard to fight against him but I can’t. His magic…”

 

Anger welled in the guard anew, rage to fill an ocean, “Then I’ll kill him first.”

 

“You can’t…” Ichigo shook his head and swallowed, “You can’t kill him. He feeds from my life force… Any wound you inflict on him…” He shook his head again, at a loss, for he’d seen the proof himself. “It would only heal and leave him as if untouched.”

 

Grimmjow growled his dislike. Ichigo could feel it rumble in the man’s broad chest. “Then I will find a way to break his magic.”

 

Ichigo started to shake his head, started to explain that he’d already tried and that the bit of magic he’d taught himself was nothing in comparison to the necromancer, even fueled by all his fear and anger and indignation. But he stilled, freezing up as his eyes widened. In his mind, wreathed in dark, creeping shadows, he remembered the horrid creature and that horrid, toothy grin and he remembered the pale gem the monster had showed him.

 

_‘it’s all I need ta reach inside and take what I wanted—‘_

 

“The stone…” Ichigo breathed, hands fisting in Grimmjow’s undershirt. He jerked back, so that he could look the man in the eye, “The stone-!” He shook his head, almost disbelieving, and could see that Grimmjow had no idea what he was talking about, “It’s his conduit, the physical manifestation of his hold over me. Everything he’s done thus far, he told me about, written in those books he gave me to study. It was right in front of me all along…”

 

“Ichigo,” Grimmjow halted his line of thought, and now that the prince had initiated contact, he felt like he couldn’t possibly let go. He pushed one hand along the prince’s upper arm, where he’d settled them as Ichigo had pulled away to look at him, up until he cupped the side of Ichigo’s neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What stone?”

 

“The- in the hall with the long table and the hearth- you were there, weren’t you? I remember you finding me, I think…” Brown eyes lowered a bit, in thought and memory. 

 

His loyal guard nodded, “I know the one.”

 

Ichigo matched his nod, his mind still lost in thought, “Along the hearth, there’s a row of jars filled with stones…” He paused and his lips thinned to a repulsed line. All those souls, all those people he’d tricked and trapped and used… “One of them, a white one, I think, is mine… He showed it to me. If you could get it from him…or maybe you would have to destroy it, I don’t know.” He shook his head a bit, only understanding half of all that was going on. He’d learned much from those books, and the necromancer was so forthcoming with his information, he was so confident. It was frightening. “But the stone is his control over me.”

 

“Then I will find it, and I’ll do what I must to free you.”

 

Ichigo managed half a small smile, and leaned forward again, too tired and worn to care if it was improper for a prince to conduct himself in such a manner around a mere guard, but Grimmjow was more than that. Grimmjow was his friend and, at this point, his only hope to return to his life. When he spoke, it was nearly a whisper against the bigger man, “Thank you, Grimmjow.”

 

Grimmjow lowered his chin, letting his cheek settle against the top of Ichigo’s head and all that orange hair. “I gave my word.”

 

“I know, but this is more than that. I know it is.”

 

“He told you?”

 

The prince was quiet for long moment, and didn’t answer. “He’ll know we didn’t–”

 

“I know he will.”

 

“…what will you do?”

 

“Whatever I must.”

 

“Grimmjow… I don’t think I would mind it.” Ichigo’s voice was so quiet, and Grimmjow’s hold on him only tightened. “You would care to be more gentle than him, I think.”

 

The guard took his leave with rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach and hatred in his mind, ready to slay the necromancer for all he’d done and all he would surely continue to do. It didn’t matter that the task set out before him was nearly impossible. It didn’t matter that he was one man, one young guard with a pitiful, iron sword against an ageless creature of dark magic and cunning. He would face the necromancer and he would come out victorious. To lose meant to forfeit not only his own life, but the prince’s as well. And after that, who knew what else the monster would set his sights on.

 

That night, Grimmjow didn’t return to the prison cell he’d been told to stay his nights in. He made his way back to the room with the great hearth and its row of jars. The necromancer awaited him with a fine spread of food upon the table, despite the late hour. He sat on one side of the table, at the end closest to the fireplace. A chair across from him had been pulled out and an extra place had been made.

 

Grimmjow took the obvious invitation and sat across from the creature. The fire was a hot, lively presence to his right, the jars and stones that lined its top almost within reach. In front of him, the necromancer practically radiated cold. There was a sly smirk on his borrowed features, as usual. 

 

A carafe of wine was pushed his way, and Grimmjow poured himself a glass, “Are you bored of me already?” He asked, not bothering to look up.

 

Shirosaki’s smirk grew, “Of course not. The game’s just beginnin’.”

 

The permanent frown on the guard’s features deepened. He didn’t dare touch the wine he’d poured. “This is a game you wont win.”

 

The creature laughed, “Do you think you -a guard and not even to the king himself- can outsmart me? Outmaneuver me? Overpower me?”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

To that, some of Shirosaki’s grin faltered. There was a confidence, an assurance, to the mortal’s voice that the ageless necromancer couldn’t quite understand. All that youth, and the arrogance and determination that came with it. It was an age he couldn’t remember. He answered with a “Hmph.” and took a sip of his own wine. 

 

After a long moment, Grimmjow picked up his chalice, swirling the deep red contents. He studied it as a plan began to form. He would have to act fast, of course, the sooner the better. His only real chance was to use the creature’s self assurance against him. If given enough time, or given enough reason to begin growing suspicious, the monster could simply force Ichigo to tell him his secret was out. If Shirosaki found out that Grimmjow knew his weakness, knew what bound the prince’s soul to him, he would act.

 

Grimmjow needed to act first.

 

Like Shirosaki said; the game was just beginning. Grimmjow didn’t plan on it being a long one.

 

Still fighting to keep his calm demeanor, he looked the necromancer in the eye over the rim of his cup. As he opened his mouth to speak, before he could even get the words out, the creature’s grin widened.

 

Shiro nodded, “You know where his room is. If he’s there, he’s all yours.”

 

Grimmjow matched the nod, and set his glass down, the wine inside still untouched. Pushing away from the table, he stood to take his leave of the creature’s company.

 

Before he made it far, the necromancer spoke up again, halting him, “Before the brilliant idea comes to your pretty little head; know that ending him will not end me. I will be just as satisfied assumin’ your shape.”

 

The idea was revolting, both of them. Grimmjow sent a sneer over his shoulder and left the room. The necromancer’s amused, mocking “Good night, guard.” followed him out.

 

But Grimmjow had other ideas, none of which involved another night locked in this castle. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, where it was belted to his hip. It felt like useless, dead weight. Like a child’s plaything. He knew it could never touch the necromancer, not truly, not while he was still drawing from Ichigo’s life force, but maybe it would better slow him than bone and flesh, if it came to it.

 

Instead of turning down the dank, dark corridor to head deeper into the mansion, where the holding cell was located, Grimmjow went straight for the staircase that dominated one side of the great hall. He took the stairs two at a time, his pace determined and quick. He had little doubt the necromancer knew he was headed into bowls of his lair, but if he’d learned one thing about the creature, it was that Shirosaki was a confident, self-assured, surprisingly patient thing.

 

Once at the top, he hesitated, and maybe he should have went left and retrieved his supplies first, but he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t give those few extra minutes up, in the chances that he would be unable to find the prince again. So he went deeper through the upper level of the castle, until he’d come to the room he’d been told was Ichigo’s.

 

He held his breath as he pushed the door open, and let it out in a relieved rush when he found a figure sprawled out upon the massive bed in the center of the room. Still wearing the robe and little else, Ichigo lay as if asleep, but his body was stiff, tense. When Grimmjow rounded the bed, he found a relief to match his own written upon the prince’s handsome, tired features. 

 

Brown eyes locked with blue for a moment, before Ichigo frowned and started to lever himself upright, like even just that was difficult. “…Grimmjow? You’re back… What-“

 

The guard rushed around to kneel before the prince, “I have a plan.” He said in a rushed whisper, taking the smaller by the hand.

 

Ichigo didn’t resist as he was pulled to his feet, but the confusion in his features multiplied. He shook his head a bit, brows furrowing, “What will you do?”

 

Grimmjow managed half a lopsided smirk, “Whatever I must.” He started to stand, pulling the prince up with him, but before turning to lead Ichigo out, he paused, and met the younger man’s eyes, “Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course…” A frown deepened Ichigo’s natural scowl, and then nothing but surprise and shock registered. A warm hand settled along his jaw; large and callused from wielding a sword regularly. The lips that found his were just as warm, and far softer. The kiss was quick but it was full of life, full of heat and everything that was opposite of the prince’s short time locked away within the necromancer’s castle. 

 

All too soon Grimmjow pulled back and grabbed the prince’s hand again. He didn’t dare turn to see the look upon the younger’s features as he led Ichigo from the room, his free hand wrapped around the hilt of his weapon.

 

He rushed them down the hall as quickly as possible, past the stairwell and the banister that overlooked the fortified entrance, until there was no farther to go and he was faced with a wall of doors. Pushing a single door open, Grimmjow felt the tug against his hand as the prince hesitated to follow him in and he knew Ichigo must have seen too much of this room already, but he insisted, tightening his hold on the younger’s hand. He felt strength match his in return. Only then did he finally release his hold.

 

Not bothering to close the door, or explain what he was doing, he turned back to the row upon row of shelving that lined the walls in the necromancer’s study. After a moment of frowning at the array of containers, Grimmjow stepped forward and selected one at random; a jar of clear-ish green fluid. Little, stringy bits of…something floated within. 

 

The guard braced himself as he twisted the top off. Almost immediately he was hit with an atrocious smell, like rot. Gagging, he put the top right back on and placed it back on the shelf, moving to the next container. 

 

This time, when he pulled a cork from a slender bottle, the sharp smell of toxicity and alcohol stung his senses. He replaced the cork and absently placed the bottle on the large, sturdy desk, and went back to the shelves, selecting containers, testing what was inside, and keeping the ones that would best serve his purpose. After a few minutes, he had a collection of jars and flasks sitting on the desk, all filled with liquids of various colors. Many of them had shriveled, preserved parts in them; a heart in one, strips of muscle in another, the head of a large rat with clouded, milky eyes in a different one.

 

Ichigo looked on, that feeling of warmth against his lips still lingering as if burned against his skin, and wondered what the guard thought he could possibly do with part of the necromancer’s extensive, grotesque collection. There were more containers on the desk than could be carried by one man, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when Grimmjow began handing him bottles. What did seem strange was that the guard seemed rather selective of which ones he was handing over, and which ones he planned to carry himself.

 

He turned to the prince, finally meeting his eyes after the sudden kiss, but said not a word. Together, they turned for the door and headed down the grand staircase. 

 

“Your horse is outside, Ichigo, he leaves the doors unlocked. To my knowledge, there is no one else in the castle. If I tell you to run, you do so, to the horse, no questions asked.” The commands were growled in a rush, blue eyes never losing their focus. “Don’t wait for me. Don’t turn back. I made a promise to your father, don’t ruin my good name with your nobel ideals.”

 

Ichigo frowned, but he understood what Grimmjow was saying; a prince’s life was worth more than a guard’s, no matter how loyal. He didn’t respond, unable to promise and out of time to do so anyway.

 

Grimmjow threw the doors open with a loud bang and the creak of sturdy hinges and heavy wood. The fire across the room fluttered with the sudden gust of air currents. He marched straight for the necromancer, much to the creature’s amusement.

 

Ichigo could see the thing’s curiosity, but there was no doubt or unease to be found. He stood there and watched the guard advance with a patience to match his centuries of life, like he was indulging the antics of a child. The expression only faltered -shifting from mildly entertained to minute confusion and displeasure- when Grimmjow twisted the top off of a jar and unceremoniously splashed the foul smelling contents all over the creature’s front. It soaked through his fine clothing and tainted the smell of the air. Glass shattered as the jar was dropped to the floor without second thought.

 

“What are you up to, mortal, are you tryin’ ta make sure I get sick of you quicker?” Shirosaki drawled, a hostile hiss to the undertones of his odd voice.

 

His answer was the shattering of another bottle, as Grimmjow dropped this one to the floor still full. Greenish, toxic smelling liquid splashed across the guard’s legs and the necromancer’s. It puddled on the floor between them, kicked across the room and tracked around as Grimmjow trampled right through it and used his size to drive into the undying creature. Cold hands snagged at him, seeking purchase, but he’d taken the monster off guard. When he felt resistance, he turned his shoulder into the creature’s chest and heaved with all his strength, gritting his teeth and letting his anger fuel him.

 

“What are you doing?!” Shirosaki practically shrieked, not used to being on the defensive.

 

But Ichigo figured it out. He looked down at the jars in his hands and realized what he’d been given. He started to surge forward, ready to help his friend. When he made it level with the progress Grimmjow had made, he was halted by a deep-voiced growl.

 

“No!” Grimmjow snarled, his gaze flickering over to the prince. “Throw it.”

 

Ichigo froze, the overwhelming smell of embalming fluid sharp in his nose. The necromancer was drenched in it, and so was Grimmjow. Brown eyes coasted past the two, to the fireplace Grimmjow was driving the creature towards, all the stones upon the mantle, and roaring fire within.

 

He took the first of his jars and heaved it. Glass shattered against the stone at the back of the fireplace. Hot flames flared to life in a flash of hungry heat and the hiss of burning, toxic liquid. He threw another, and a third, and watched the flames char the mantelpiece. The heat warped the jars and stones toppled free, some scattering across the floor and others falling into the angry fire with dull thumps and the crackling of splitting caused by too much heat.

 

Shirosaki screamed an enraged sound and finally disengaged his hands long enough to start casting.

 

“Grimm–!”

 

But the warning was unneeded. The guard had been waiting for it. He took one of the bottles he still held, clenched his fingers around it, and slammed it straight into the pale creature’s jaw. Glass cut his palm and the liquid stung so sharply it made his eyes water. He disregarded all of it, though, the entire point simply to interrupt the magic that would be his undoing. They couldn’t lose this window. It was the only chance they had.

 

The necromancer grunted, head snapping back. He ended up with a mouthful of flammable embalming fluid. Behind him, the once peaceful fire raged into an inferno, fed by the tools of his trade. He flashed white teeth, gaging on the nauseating taste in his mouth and unsure whether it was blood or preserved fluids dripping down his chin and streaking his throat.

 

Sparks flew from the flames as it crackled and popped. Embers skittered across the floor with the spilled stones. Some of them found the pools of spilled liquids and the fire spread through out the room, trying desperately to catch at the edges of the necromancer’s robes as he and the guard trampled through it. The fine wood of the table and chairs was like kindling as heat built in the room, consuming the oxygen, charing the ceiling, licking at the occupants.

 

“Go, Ichigo, run!” Grimmjow commanded in a growl, still struggling with the necromancer.

 

The creature hissed an inhuman sound and pushed words through his glass-shredded lips, “No, little prince, you’re stayin’ right here.” 

 

With the words, Ichigo felt the link in his mind snap tight like a chain, reeling him toward the monster that would have him call it master.

 

“Fight him, Ichigo.” The guard clenched his torn fingers around a sharp shard of glass from the bottle he’d broken, driving his shoulder as hard as he could against the creature’s chest. 

 

“Oh, he’s tryin’.” Some of Shirosaki’s grin returned, even as he was driven another step back. Even as his boots crunched on fired brick and his heel kicked up a smooth, white stone. “This wont kill me, guardsman, this will be as nothing. It serves no purpose other than annoyin’ me.”

 

The glint was like a diamond and it caught Grimmjow’s eye through his struggles. He had no idea if it was the stone Ichigo spoke about, but when he looked down at it, past the lithe form of the necromancer, he couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away. So he took a chance, and hoped it was the one.

 

Bringing his hand up, that shard of glass cold against his palm compared to the heat of the fire dancing around them, he used it like a dagger, stabbing it straight into the necromancer’s chest. Leaving the glass where it sank, he shoved away from the creature and dove straight for the stone. 

 

Off to the side, Ichigo’s shocked gasp of air matched the necromancer’s as the link between them flashed with cold pain.

 

It took the undying creature not but a moment to rip the glass from his chest and spin upon the guard. He wasn’t sure how the simple human knew which stone he needed. Only he himself should have been able to see the differences in the souls contained within the stones. Yet the loyal guard inevitably snagged up the correct one, despite that it looked like so many of the others rolling around at their feet.

 

Shirosaki dropped the glass, letting it shatter and add to the mess on his floor, and threw his hand out so fast and hard that Grimmjow grunted under the pressure of the magic before he even had the chance to be thrown across the room. He hit the wall beside the fireplace, his armor protecting him from the wall of fire he’d been thrown through. The raging inferno to his side was hot. It burned at his arms and sought to catch hold of the sickly liquid that had splashed upon the guard. There was a surprisingly tenacious little grin tugging at his handsome features, though, as he grit his teeth and, working against the necromancer’s magic, uncurled his tightly wound fingers.

 

The white stone dropped to the floor with a dull thump and the minute puff of ash in the bottom of the fireplace. Fire wreathed it, as hungry for the stone as it was for flesh and wood and bone.

 

The creature curled his lip to bare teeth, “Retrieve the stone, little prince.”

 

Ichigo took a single step forward against his will, horrified. The grip in his mind was so startling cold that it burned as badly as the flames in the room, the flames he was about to start digging through for the stone that was the physical manifestation of his very soul.

 

But then something happened, and the cold grip in his mind loosened and warmed. A whining hiss rose through the room, followed by a sharp crack not unlike the breaking old, brittle bone.

 

The necromancer must have felt it as well. He froze, his inverted eyes wide where he met the guard’s eyes. Then his features scrunched into pure rage and he gestured out to the side, easily swatting Grimmjow from his path. 

 

As the hapless guard met with the long table and crumpled to the floor, Ichigo watched the flames steal the pearly, white color from his stone. The white muddied and charred to black. The crack down its middle split wider and two halves fell apart to teeter upon the flame ravaged floor. Shirosaki shrieked as the link was severed.

 

Ichigo, feeling true freedom of himself once more, didn’t wait to watch as the creature all but dove straight through the fire to seek out the burning stone. It blistered his pale flesh, burned his expensive clothing, using the embalming fluid like fuel. It bit at his features and singed his long, white hair. But still the necromancer snarled and dug through the ashes as if impervious to the white-hot pain.

 

The prince dropped to his guard’s side, “Grimmjow?! Come, it’s done.” He captured the guard’s handsome features between his hands as Grimmjow groaned a disoriented sound. Then his eyes dropped to the handle of the sword his guard hadn’t drawn. All he could hear was the monster’s enraged yells and snarls and the crackling of hungry fire. Before he knew it, his hand dropped to wrap around the hilt, ready to draw the sword, but warmth covered his fingers as Grimmjow began working his feet under himself.

 

“You don’t owe him that.” Grimmjow assured, his cold blue eyes sincere and hard as he shook his head slightly. He pushed the sword back into its sheath, barely able to hear the slight sound of it settling and locking in place.

 

He climbed to his feet and grabbed the prince’s hand, rushing them to for the door as the fire raced them down the table’s length. The jars that had been left atop its surface, still full of toxic fluids and rancid ingredients, popped and exploded in small bursts of heat and shattered glass.

 

“You don’t owe him anything close to quick.” He knew exactly what Ichigo was thinking. It showed openly and honestly upon the prince’s features and even had the guard not been paying attention to his young charge, he still knew Ichigo didn’t have the capacity for cruelty in him.

 

In the background, as the two rounded the doorframe and made for the main entrance, the necromancer screamed and cursed their very existence. “You haven’t seen the last of me,” He promised as the fire ate his flesh and the severed link ate his youth. “I have lived for centuries, and I will live for centuries more!”

 

Grimmjow tugged at Ichigo’s hand, refusing to let go, lest the prince turn back. “In your mercy, Ichigo, he would only ensure you die at his side.”

 

And so the two fled the grand mansion, leaving behind the echoes of the monster’s rage and pain and the smell of burning bone and blistered stone. Black smoke tainted the sky above the old castle, like its heart and all the secrets it hid were spewing forth. 

 

Miles away, on the other side of the forbidden forest, the king watched the smoke blend with the evening sky, waiting and hoping.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not add a drabble later to wrap things up a bit more, so the ending isn't quite so open... I haven't decided yet. Either way, I would love to hear your thoughts~


End file.
